THE  HIVE 

Will  Levington  Com/ort 

W  AX 


i 


II 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  HIVE 


BYWILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 



THE  HIVE 

THE  LAST  DITCH 

CHILD  AND  COUNTRY 

LOT  &  COMPANY 
RED  FLEECE 
MIDSTREAM 
DOWN  AMONG  MEN 
FATHERLAND 

— — 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


The  Hive 


BY 

WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 

AUTHOR  OF  "MIDSTREAM,"  "CHILD  AND  COUNTRY," 
"THE  LAST  DITCH,"  "DOWN  AMONG  MEN,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


P 


5 


TO  MARY 

.    .    .    soft  gold  and  deep 
fragrance  and  pomegranate  red. 


FOREWORD 


There  is  much  to  say.  Many  have  a  part  in 
this  story  of  our  days.  Their  work  is  on  the 
table.  Yet  no  manuscript,  no  chapter,  is  a  real 
beginning.  One  must  start  a  book  this  way — 
with  a  fresh  sheet  in  the  machine  and  tell  what  he 
is  going  to  tell  about.  .  .  .  First  of  all,  it  has  to 
do  with  the  unfolding  of  the  child  mind;  all  the 
Stonestudy  work  has  been  for  that,  but  the  brim 
ming  wonder  of  it  all  is  that  we  have  chiefly  been 
employed  unfolding  ourselves. 

No  one  can  begin  upon  the  sweet  and  sacred 
story  of  life  to  a  child  without  taking  a  stride 
nearer  into  the  centre  of  things,  and  living  it. 
That's  what  all  telling  is  about — presently  to  stop 
talking  and  to  catch  up  on  conduct.  The  fairest 
culture  of  all  is  to  become  artists  in  life.  .  .  . 
Thinking  of  this,  thinking  much  upon  this  one 
thing,  we  have  been  lured  out  of  the  heaviness  of 
work  into  the  dimension  of  Play.  We  tell  here 
about  this  particular  passage. 

Also  something  about  the  story  of  Man  and 
Woman,  hinting  at  what  is  contained  in  pages  of 
the  Book  of  Life  not  opened  heretofore  for  the 

[7] 


FOREWORD 


eyes  of  the  many,  but  preparing  now  for  the  eyes 
of  the  children  of  the  New  Race — a  beautiful 
story,  be  sure  of  that,  but  one  that  requires  art 
in  the  telling.  No  one  could  bring  this  story  to 
the  lovers  and  the  children  of  the  New  Race  who 
had  not  found  out  that  Beauty  belongs  to  the  di 
vine  trinity  with  Goodness  and  Truth. 

Many  seers  have  not  held  that  well  in  mind, 
many  sages  have  forgotten  it,  many  saints  have 
not  learned  it  adequately  at  all.  We  have  to 
build  our  own  heavens  here  before  we  can  have 
them  anywhere  else.  The  more  of  an  artist  a 
man  is,  the  more  reverent  he  becomes  about  per 
fecting  his  thought-forms.  Just  a  mention  now 
— that  we  rejoice  to  make  much  of  the  Beauty 
side  of  things  in  this  book;  that  a  thing  cannot  be 
beautiful  and  bad;  that  Beauty  is  the  next  quest 
of  the  many,  as  they  escape  one  by  one  from  the 
bondage  of  Gold. 

We  try  to  express  the  Soul  of  things  rather 
than  to  delineate  boundaries  of  matter,  but  a  very 
strong  point  is  made  upon  the  fact  that  one  can 
not  deal  in  the  spirit  until  he  has  mastered  to  a 
good  degree  the  coarser  stuff  that  bodies  and 
worlds  are  made  of.  We  do  not  care  how  the 
young  minds  aspire  mystically,  so  long  as  their 
abutments  hold  fast  in  the  bottom-lands.  A  man 
must  not  drag  his  anchor  as  he  climbs  the  hill; 
he  must  unfold  line  all  the  way — a  line  made  of 

f8] 


FOREWORD 


strands  of  himself,  woven  of  his  own  wisdom,  love 
and  power. 

Much  is  made  in  this  book  of  the  fact  that  we 
are  given  pounds  for  a  purpose — that  all  here  be 
low  is  symbol  and  intimation  of  a  globe  and  per 
fection  elsewhere — that  we  cannot  look  upon  the 
archetype  of  gold  until  we  have  mastered  the  imi 
tation  in  clay.  .  .  .  We  come  even  closer  to  this 
precious  subject:  For  instance,  we  know  that  it 
is  only  from  the  soul  of  things  that  one  can  see 
materials — that  no  one  can  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
meaning  of  materials  so  long  as  he  is  lost  in  the 
ruck  of  them.  At  the  same  time  we  do  not  believe 
that  we  have  access,  even  to  the  lesser  grades  of 
mysticism,  until  we  have  all  the  power  and  force 
of  the  material-minded.  We  believe  we  must  do 
well  that  which  the  world  is  doing,  even  the  tasks 
of  the  average  man,  that  nothing  can  be  missed. 

We  do  not  encourage  that  mystic  or  poet  who 
requires  endowment.  If  we  are  to  be  artists,  we 
believe  in  supporting  our  own  groups;  we  have  a 
suspicion  that  we  are  not  through  with  conditions, 
any  conditions  no  matter  how  hateful,  so  long  as 
they  have  us  whipped. 

We  aspire  to  be  writers  and  politicians  and 
painters  and  heroes ;  we  aspire  to  be  masters  in  all 
the  superb  productions  of  life,  but  we  are  content 
to  begin  with  the  ground.  We  are  content  with 
poverty,  yet  we  believe  that  very  early  as  work 
men,  we  are  entitled  to  a  fastidious  poverty,  which 


FOREWORD 


is  expensive.  No  possessions — but  all  posses 
sions.  As  writers  we  are  convinced  that  it  is  nec 
essary  to  do — and  inimitably  well — the  things 
that  the  public  wants  and  pays  ten  cents  the  word 
for,  quite  as  well  as  to  reveal  the  deeper  folds  of 
our  growth  for  which  we  have  to  finance  publica 
tion.  We  are  not  sure  yet  which  is  the  worthier 
achievement. 

Perhaps  we  speak  much  of  Soul  in  this  book, 
but  we  mean  nothing  more  formidable  than  the 
better  part  of  every  man.  This  is  the  Big  Fel 
low  who  takes  us  over  when  we  do  that  which  is 
worth  while — in  billiards  or  diplomacy,  in  art  or 
love  or  trade.  I  think  it  is  the  Big  Comrade 
which  we  are  really  unfolding — the  Workman 
and  Player.  Much  of  Soul,  we  write,  because  it 
is  the  point  of  our  educational  drive — to  set  It 
free  in  the  child  or  the  young  workman,  to  make 
It  speak  or  write  or  play,  and  not  mere  brain  and 
hand. 

We  speak  much  of  love — not  as  an  emotion, 
not  as  a  sentiment,  but  as  a  cosmic  force.  You 
will  see  much  more  what  we  mean  by  this  as  you 
turn  the  pages.  It  is  the  most  challenging  thing 
in  the  world.  It  is  the  inner  white-hot  core  of  the 
Fatherland  that  is  to  be — the  great  white  De 
mocracy  of  the  future.  .  .  . 

Democracy — that's  the  point  of  inception  of  it 
all;  that  word  is  the  seed.  The  more  you  dwell 
upon  it — you  know  what  the  Seamless  Robe  of 

[10] 


FOREWORD 


the  Christ  means — the  more  you  realise  that  the 
Master  Jesus  was  the  first  Big  Democrat.  .  .  . 
We  have  them  speak  the  word  softly  and  thought 
fully  here  each  day — we  like  to  hear  the  young 
ones  say  it.  They  are  apt  to  know  as  much  about 
it  as  you  do — for  the  word  doesn't  mean  exactly 
what  they  mean,  who  have  used  it  most  hereto 
fore.  It  isn't  the  name  of  a  political  party — 
yet.  ...  It  is  government  of  the  people  by  the 
people,  but  only  to  those  who  see  the  sons  of  God 
in  the  eyes  of  passing  men.  We  only  ask  its 
magic,  not  its  presence  upon  these  pages.  .  .  . 
They're  fighting  for  it  gloriously — every  hour. 
The  boys  here  thrill  with  the  boys  there.  We 
hold  our  hands  high  to  them.  Some  of  our  boys 
are  there.  They  are  all  our  boys !  Some  are  wait 
ing  the  call  to  go — but  there  or  here,  we  are  pull 
ing  together  for  the  real  Fatherland,  for  the  ade- 
quite  fraternity,  under  the  endless  and  thrilling 
magic  of  the  word  Equality. 

...  I  can  say  no  more  splendid  word  to  you 
than  My  Equal :  I  know  of  no  greater  adventure 
than  to  become  one  of  the  Many.  It  is  true  that 
you  and  I — the  best  of  us,  the  Immortal  within 
us  each,  are  of  one  house — that  this  is  but  a  far 
outpost  of  the  journey,  Egypt  if  you  like,  the 
husks  if  you  like — but  that  we  have  arisen  and  are 
on  our  way  home  to  the  Father's  House. 

Canyon,  Santa  Monica,  California. 
["1 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

NORTH  AMERICANS 17 

QUICKENINGS 24 

CONQUEST  OF  FEARS 36 

THE  STUFF  OF  COMRADES 45 

JOHN'S  THINGS 56 

VALUES  OF  LETTER  WRITING 70 

THE  NEW  DANCING .79 

OLD  PICTURES  IN  RED 91 

STEVE  .    \ 101 

HEJIRA      . in 

THE  SPECTATOR 118 

TOM  AND  THE  LITTLE  GIRL 129 

THE  ABBOT 139 

THE  ARTIST  UNLEASHED 155 

WORK  IN  SHORT  STORIES     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  164 

VALLEY  ROAD  GIRL  . •  172 

BEAUTY 183 

SHUK    .............  192 

IMAGINATION  .........     •     .  205 

BOYS  AND  DOGS  .     .     ...     .     .     .     .     .  211 

THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  PEACE 219 

[13] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  DITHYRAMB  AND  A  LETTER 233 

THE  MATING  MYSTERY  ........  241 

CHAPTER  OF  LETTERS 252 

ROMANCE 267 

THE  COSMIC  PEASANT 277 

RESUME 315 


[14] 


THE  HIVE 


1 
NORTH    AMERICANS 


r         ""^HE  thing  called  the  New  Rate — the 

passion  of  poets,  the  phantom  running 
ahead  and  forever  calling  the  dreamer 

"^^  and  revolutionist  and  occultist,  is  far 
from  a  reality  as  yet  among  the  commonplaces  of 
the  world.  It  is  the  spirit  of  everything  worth 
while,  but  that  means  nothing  to  one  who  has 
not  a  breath  of  it  in  his  own  body.  ...  A  story 
went  forth  from  this  shop  recently  in  which  cer 
tain  ideals  and  presences  of  the  new  social  order 
were  carried  through  to  a  cheerful  ending.  The 
publisher  wrote,  "Yes,  but  what  is  the  New 
Race?" 

It's  a  fair  question,  but  remember  one  cannot 
adequately  describe  a  spiritual  thing  in  terms  of 
matter.  It  is  only  possible  of  portrayal  where  it 
has  broken  through  into  terms  of  three-space. 
First  you  are  apt  to  get  the  nearest  and  most  strik 
ing  picture  of  the  New  Race  at  your  own  supper- 
table — the  presence  of  one  of  your  own  children, 
especially  if  the  young  one  is  hard  to  understand. 

[17] 


THE      HIVE 

Parents  and  children  of  all  times  have  found 
confusion  and  alarm  in  each  other's  ways.  But 
there  are  rare  periods  of  human  history  when  the 
difference  between  two  generations  has  been  not 
a  normal  and  superficial  crack,  but  an  abyss.  It  is 
so  now.  The  Old  has  reached  its  climacteric  point 
of  destructivity.  All  self-passions  destroy  them 
selves  in  time.  Fear,  greed,  sensuality — all  are 
self-destructive.  Great  human  numbers  and  de 
cadent  principles  have  been  recently  broken  down 
in  the  world  with  a  swiftness  and  abandonment 
heretofore  unrecorded,  except  in  the  traditions  of 
planetary  flood  and  flame.  .  .  . 

You  may  watch  closely  the  child  under  seven 
who  plays  in  the  Unseen,  whose  companions  are 
not  in  the  room  for  older  eyes;  watch  the  one  of 
fancies  and  fairies  and  fragrances  which  others 
cannot  quite  discern.  Many  a  child  has  been  driven 
with  a  soul-wound  into  corroding  silence  by  par 
ents  who  thought  they  were  punishing  falsehood, 
when  they  were  in  reality  repressing  the  imagina 
tion — the  faculty  which  master-artists  denote  as 
the  first  and  loveliest  possession  of  the  creative 
mind.  Too  coarse  and  unlit  to  see  what  the  child 
saw,  the  parents  again  and  again  have  looked 
gravely  at  each  other,  saying: 

"This  is  a  crisis.  Our  child  has  begun  to  lie. 
We  must  forget  her  own  feelings  and  punish 
her " 

So  often  it  is  her — but  not  always.  The  boys 
[18] 


NORTH      AMERICANS 


who  are  to  do  the  great  tasks  of  song  and  prophecy 
and  architecture — they,  too,  dream  dreams  and 
see  visions  and  have  the  rapt  eyes  of  Joan  in  the 
forests  of  Domremy;  they,  too,  are  severely  ques 
tioned  by  the  pharisees;  none  escape  this  scourg 
ing;  they,  too,  in  many  cases  shall  be  put  to  death. 

The  new  ideals  of  the  parenthood,  education, 
romance,  are  now  being  introduced  and  promul 
gated  by  pioneers  long  since  emerged  from  the 
old  litter  and  humus.  Education  will  mean  first 
of  all  a  turning  for  power  to  the  Unseen.  The 
quest  of  the  Swan  and  the  Star  and  the  Beloved, 
are  never  carried  along  on  the  levels  and  inequali 
ties  of  the  earth — always  the  uplifted  face  for  the 
saint  and  the  sage  and  the  seer.  Great  parents 
kneel  beside  their  children  and  beg  to  be  deliv 
ered  from  the  heaviness  which  holds  them  to  the 
dim  shadows,  where  the  child  sees  face  to  face. 
Education  will  mean  finding  his  intrinsic  task  for 
the  child — the  intensive  cultivation  of  the  human 
spirit  from  the  Soul  outward,  not  alone  from  the 
brain  inward. 

The  quest  of  the  passing  age  was  for  Gold.  The 
real  meaning  and  symbol  and  glory  of  gold,  as 
the  highest,  smoothest  and  most  finished  of  miner 
als,  has  been  lost  in  the  bulkier  products  and  pos 
sessions  it  meant  to  measure  and  signify.  More 
and  more  has  gold  itself  hid  away  from  vulgar 
hands  and  been  represented  by  objects  intrin 
sically  inferior.  We  now  behold  a  civilisation 

[19] 


THE      HIVE 


destroying  itself  for  commodities  and  destroying 
the  commodities  for  which  the  destruction  began. 

Gold  itself  will  serve  Beauty  in  the  coming  age ; 
commerce  will  serve  aesthetics.  The  lovers  of 
Beauty  begin  with  the  sand,  with  the  clay.  They 
love  nature  from  the  ground  up;  they  are  fervent 
for  light  and  air,  for  sun  and  sky  and  water,  for 
fruits  and  grains  and  bees,  for  stars  and  rains  and 
romances.  They  say  such  things  are  holy. 
Words  are  inadequate  for  their  loves  and  appreci 
ations.  They  find  the  ways  to  love  God  infinite. 
They  see  Him  in  stone  and  stream;  they  see  Him 
in  the  eyes  of  the  deep  down  men;  they  see  Him 
risen  and  inevitable  in  the  eyes  of  their  lovers.  .  .  . 

Straight  goodness  will  not  do  for  the  New 
Race,  nor  straight  intellectuality.  Artists,  singers, 
painters  and  idealists  will  be  the  heroes  of  the 
generations  to  come,  for  they  will  add  the  quest 
of  Beauty  to  the  unwashed  goodness  of  the  saints 
and  pilgrims. 

These  are  but  flaring  points ;  one  is  embarrassed 
in  short  space  because  of  a  myriad  things  to  say. 
Free  verse  is  a  sign  of  the  New,  also  the  dream  of 
a  free  world  and  the  planetary  patriotism.  The 
immanence  of  the  spirit  of  all  things,  is  a  sign ;  the 
sense  of  the  underlying  oneness  of  humanity;  not 
alone  the  Fatherland,  but  the  Kinterland,  where 
new  Fountains  are  established  and  sages  and  mas 
ters  come  for  inspiration — all  these,  like  a  pass 
ing  train  of  wonder,  a  glimpse  of  many  cars.  .  .  . 

[20] 


NORTH      AMERICANS 


I  think  I  can  bring  the  picture  in  closer  by  us 
ing  a  few  pages  of  work  from  one  of  the  young 
men  with  me.  His  name  is  Steve.  I  called  him 
The  Dakotan,*  in  the  book,  Child  and  Country. 
We've  romped  and  ridden  together  for  three  years, 
and  I've  known  Steve  better  every  day — still  far 
from  the  end.  The  rest  of  the  chapter  is  Steve's 
writing : 

NORTH   AMERICANS 

Out  of  the  centuries  of  moil  and  mix  and  fuse 
of  Europe,  the  orient  and  the  north  countries, 
a  gleaming  archetype  has  emerged  here  which 
may  be  called  the  real  North  Americans.  They 
are  scattered  here  and  there  among  the  younger 
generation — young  people  new  in  name  only;  in 
soul  they  are  as  old  as  Zeus.  Often  they  are 
strangers  in  their  father's  house.  They  blend  the 
mind  of  the  occidental  with  the  soul  of  the  east; 
splendid  firstlings  of  an  untried  future.  They  be 
tray  themselves  by  their  genius.  Heredity  is  the 
first  fetich  overthrown  by  them. 

From  the  first  they  are  a  law  unto  themselves. 
They  cast  off  churches,  codes,  creeds,  schools  and 
parents  as  preliminary  steps  in  their  teens.  In 
the  twenties  they  are  prodigies,  leaders  in  the  arts 
or  the  revolutions.  It  is  their  aim  to  overreach 
themselves,  not  to  further  a  type.  Very  early 
they  conjourn  together  in  secret  and  obscure 
places,  revolting  against  life  as  it  is  lived,  like  a 
handful  of  white  dwellers  in  a  foreign  city. 

*  H.  A.  Sturtzel. 

[21] 


THE      HIVE 

There  is  always  an  alien,  intangible  something 
about  these  people.  One  senses  the  double  life 
they  lead,  their  own,  and  others.  Conditions  are 
not  yet  adjusted  for  them.  They  are  super-na 
tionalists,  the  first  mark  of  the  new.  They  are 
dreamers  who  make  their  dreams  come  true  in 
matter,  and  first  among  their  dreams  is  of  the 
planet  in  one  piece.  They  are  naturally  intoler 
ant  of  barriers  and  partitions.  They  see  ahead  a 
new  social  order  vast  and  shining  as  a  devachanic 
vision — the  real  democracy  of  the  future.  They 
see  that  the  new  has  come  in  not  to  kill,  but  to 
build.  Theirs  will  be  the  spiritual  heroics.  Yet 
all  this,  of  the  greater  patriotism,  must  not  yet 
be  spoken.  It  only  alienates  them  the  more  from 
those  they  must  live  with.  Their  arch  enemy  is 
Ignorance,  personified  so  often  in  their  elders. 

It  is  noticeable  that  these  young  people  are 
healthier,  stronger,  swifter,  sharper,  tougher, 
bolder  and  at  the  same  time  lighter  and  finer  than 
the  passing  generation.  They  have  the  new 
healthiness.  They  belong  to  the  open  and  are 
practically  immune  to  disease.  Theirs  is  the 
health  of  sun  and  wind  and  spirit — vitality  in 
stead  of  constitution,  something  the  old  can  never 
understand.  Constitution  is  weight,  solid,  ungiv- 
ing.  Vitality  is  volatile,  springy,  electric,  con 
stantly  being  given,  constantly  being  acquired, 
self-refining.  Constitution  does  not  change;  it  ac 
cumulates  all  it  can,  then  begins  to  die.  .  .  . 

The  young  women  of  this  new  Race  are  open, 
strong,  eye-to-eye,  free  spoken.  They  are  capable 

[22] 


NORTH      AMERICANS 


of  friendships;  they  are  not  adverse  to  being 
wholly  understood  by  males.  They  are  not  popu 
lar  with  ordinary  women,  who  surmise  their  su 
periority  but  comprehend  it  not.  Deceit,  jeal 
ousy  and  such  common  disturbances  evident  in 
the  sex  are  unknown  to  them.  They  have  char 
acter  and  are  lovely  rather  than  beautiful.  They 
are  apt  to  go  half  way  in  their  love-making,  for 
who  should  know  better  when  the  chosen  father 
of  their  children  arrives. 

All  of  these  people  are  bringers  of  true  love. 
Love  is  their  philosophy  and  religion.  They 
listen  to  the  heart  as  well  as  the  brain.  Others 
think  them  cruel  in  their  discrimination  in  mating. 
They  take  all  or  nothing — prodigious  riskers, 
great  sufferers,  throwing  even  love's  dream  on 
the  board  to  be  played  for,  and  laughing  as  they 
play.  The  slightest  blight  on  the  loved  one  is 
deepest  agony. 

Perhaps  the  surest  way  of  discovering  these 
young  giants  is  to  search  about  for  the  most  sorely 
harassed  children.  Invariably  they  are  put  to  it, 
to  break  into  this  day  and  generation.  They  fight 
their  way  up  through  all  the  banked-up  ignorance 
and  antagonism  of  unlit  humanity.  Often  they 
are  solitaires,  coming  and  going  with  the  secrecy 
of  kings  and  eagles. 


[23] 


2 

QUICKENINGS 


A  FEW  pages  of  drift  first  of  all  with 
the  younger  boys.  .  .  .  There  is  a  lane 
of  Lombardy  poplars  from  the  Lake 
to  the  interurban  car-line — a  half  mile. 
It  is  a  lifting  walk  at  any  time,  but  summer  even 
ings  are  wonderful  with  all  the  sounds  and  scents 
of  a  true  pastorale — lake-breath   and   meadow- 
lands,  the  whole  sky  to  look  at,  and  the  murmur 
ing  dissonance  of  the  poplars.     Often  we  walk 
to  the  car  with  passing  guests.     One  evening  a 
guest  went  away  whom  we  loved  very  much.     A 
lad  of  seven,  named  John,  and  I  walked  back 
from  the  car  alone. 

He  was  ignited.  I  felt  this  at  last  through 
his  hand.  I  had  been  thinking  about  my  own 
things  all  too  long,  missing  the  beginnings  of 
his  talk.  .  .  .  He  hurried  forward  in  the  dusk, 
speaking  in  a  hushed  rapt  voice.  Because  I  had 
missed  the  first  part,  I  said:  "John,  I  want  you 
to  write  that — either  to-night  or  to-morrow." 
[•24] 


£UICKENINGS 


And  this  is  what  came  in : 

THE  MAGIC  LANE: 

It  was  at  dusk.  Two  people  left  their  tracks 
in  Nature's  dust  road. 

Love  is  found  on  that  road.  It  is  the  road  of 
the  mystics. 

They  leave  their  love  in  it;  Nature  kisses  their 
feet. 

Many  horses'  feet  have  been  kissed  on  that 
mystic  road. 

That  mystic  road  will  last  forever. 

I  long  to  walk  upon  that  road  of  love. 

Love  on  that  road  will  last  forever. 

It  is  all  true  love. 

Our  friends  have  been  met  on  that  road  of 
love. 

It  leads  to  the  Hills  of  God. 

Certain  spelling  matters  have  been  corrected. 
We  pay  little  attention  to  spelling  in  the  work 
here.  The  young  ones  learn  by  reading  and  get 
the  proper  look  of  a  word  altogether  too  soon  in 
many  cases.  There  was  another  high  moment 
from  John  at  the  same  time.  The  following  three 
lines  have  stood  out  from  the  period  with  mem 
orable  magic: 

WONDER 

The  soft  breath  of  the  Mother  came  in  through 
the  window  of  vines. 


THE      HIVE 

The  stars  were  shining  like  the  face  of  the 
New  Generation. 

My  spirit  was  away  in  the  Hills.  A  noise  at 
the  door  brought  me  back 

John  then  fell  into  a  psychological  tangle  which 
we  found  little  profit  in  following.  By  the 
"Mother"  he  referred  to  Nature.  .  .  .  The  verse 
period  has  passed  for  the  time.  Around  the  age 
of  seven,  boys  change.  Often,  as  in  this  case,  they 
are  not  so  interesting  for  a  while  afterward.  John 
is  coming  nine  now  and  is  writing  "action"  stories 
with  all  the  worn  and  regulation  props  and  set 
tings.  The  early  tendency  will  return  with  a 
dimension  added.  All  transitions  are  times  of 
disorder,  but  they  are  followed  by  larger  areas 
and  truer  fulfilments  of  order.  A  cloud  falls 
upon  the  sanctuary,  but  when  it  is  dispelled,  one 
perceives  a  lifted  dome,  bright  with  its  new  cloth 
of  gold. 

I  am  struck  every  day  in  dealing  with  young 
boys  how  wisdom  and  beauty  and  truth  can  be 
inculcated  in  their  lives,  without  pain  and  strain 
to  them,  and  with  great  profit  to  the  teacher. 
The  young  mind  is  quick  to  change.  It  has  not 
grown  its  pharisaical  ivory.  .  .  . 

The  sanction  of  a  boy  must  be  won  on  a  physi 
cal  basis.  A  man  must  know  what  the  boy  knows 
and  go  him  one  better.  The  man  must  understand 
boy  points  of  view,  but  never  expect  the  boy 
to  be  puerile.  Parents  of  the  past  generations 

[26] 


gUICKENINGS 


have  had  the  steady  effrontery  to  expect  very 
little  from  children.  "Why,  they  are  only  chil 
dren!"  has  done  more  to  make  for  vacuousness 
and  drivel  than  any  other  visionless  point  of 
view,  none  of  which  has  been  missed.  There 
is  a  difference  in  ages,  to  be  sure.  The  child's 
mind  has  not  massed  for  use  the  external  impacts 
of  twenty  or  thirty  years  of  life  in  the  world,  but 
there  is  also  an  Immortal  within — a  singer,  hero, 
builder,  or  a  teacher  possibly,  eager  to  manifest 
through  the  child's  fresh  mind,  fervid  to  bring 
the  mind  of  the  child  to  its  subjection,  for  the  ex 
pression  of  its  own  revelations.  Indeed,  the 
parents  themselves  are  enjoined  to  become  as  little 
children.  In  arriving  at  this  wisdom  and  humility, 
they  may  suddenly  find  masters  in  their  own 
children. 

There  is  also  a  lad  here  of  seven  named  Tom. 
Yesterday  I  found  him  beside  me  on  the  sand, 
down  by  the  water's  edge.  I  began  to  tell  him 
about  the  Inner  Light  that  we  all  carry.  You 
can  talk  over  a  child's  head,  if  your  words  are 
choked  with  mental  complications  (which  is  apt 
to  be  second-rate  talk,  anyway),  but  you  seldom 
are  out  of  reach  of  a  fine  child's  grasp  when  you 
speak  of  spiritual  things.  He  was  sitting  cross- 
legged,  folded  hands  between  his  knees — a  little 
six  pointed  star — head  and  shoulders  the  three 
upper  points,  knees  with  folded  hands  between, 
the  three  lower.  He  was  bare  from  the  waist  up 
[27] 


THE      HIVE 

and  thighs  down,  and  brown  as  the  honey  of  buck 
wheat.  ...  I  told  him  that  the  seventh  and  per 
fect  point  of  his  star  was  within;  that  if  he  shut 
his  eyes  and  kept  very  still,  putting  away  for  the 
present  all  his  thoughts  about  himself,  his  feelings, 
his  wants  and  his  rights — looking  into  himself 
as  one  would  look  ahead  for  a  lamp  in  the  night, 
listening  deep  within,  as  one  would  listen  for  the 
voice  of  a  loved  friend, — I  promised  that  at  last 
he  would  see  what  the  three  wise  men  saw — the 
Star  in  the  East.  He  need  only  follow  that  Star 
and  be  true  to  its  guidance  to  come  at  last  to  the 
Cave  and  the  Solar  Babe.  .  .  .  After  that  I 
hinted  that  I  would  come  to  his  feet  and  listen. 

Tom  felt  that  it  was  worth  trying  for  at  once — 
shut  his  eyes,  turning  all  thoughts  and  gaze  within. 
He  held  the  posture  long.  ...  I  have  marvelled 
again  and  again  at  the  quickness  with  which  the 
child-mind  attains  to  concentration  so  essential 
for  all  original  production.  The  little  ones  have 
no  mad  emotional  lists  to  sort  out  and  subdue; 
their  wants  are  simple  "yes"  and  "no"  in  so  many 
cases.  Indeed,  they  are  spared  the  struggle  of 
becoming  as  little  children.  .  .  .  Tom  held  the 
posture,  until  I  was  actually  tense  from  the  strain 
of  waiting  and  keeping  my  thoughts  from  calling 
his. 

It  was  a  picture — sun-whitened  hair,  long  yel 
low  lashes,  brown  body  with  a  bit  of  babe's  soft 
ness  left  to  it,  and  glorious  sunlight.  He  opened 

[28] 


QUICKENINGS 


his  eyes  at  last  saying  that  he  had  the  door,  where 
the  light  was,  almost  opened,  when  a  fly  bit 
him. 

I  thought  of  the  perfection  of  the  instance 
of  the  mind's  waywardness — the  coming  of  the 
Master  spoiled  by  a  fly  bite.  .  .  .  Tom  will 
search  for  his  Star  every  day.  It  is  strange  that 
he  is  closer  to  the  hill-pastures  around  Bethlehem, 
under  seven,  than  for  years  afterward. 

To  learn  concentration  in  mid-life  after  the 
world  "has  been  put  through  a  man,"  is  an  ordeal 
at  best;  and  yet  we  are  by  no  means  masters  of 
ourselves,  nor  capable  of  significant  achievement 
until  the  brain  can  be  stilled  at  will  of  its  petty 
affairs  (the  first  aim  of  concentration)  and  be 
comes  the  glad  servant  of  the  "giant"  within. 

A  little  later  I  saw  Tom  on  the  back  of  a  huge 
black  walk-trot  saddle-horse  of  show  quality — 
passing  up  the  Lane  at  a  fast  clip,  his  feet  half 
way  to  the  stirrups,  holding  on  to  the  saddle 
with  one  hand,  the  bridle-rein  in  the  other.  A 
year  or  two  ago  I  should  have  been  afraid  to  per 
mit  that,  but  we  manage  now  to  relieve  the  young 
ones  of  a  large  part  of  our  fears  for  their  welfare. 
Children  have  enough  to  overcome  from  their 
parents.  Frequently  the  New  Age  young  people 
have  to  master  their  heredity  before  they  begin 
upon  themselves. 

Life  is  a  big  horse  to  ride,  so  often  a  black 
horse.  It  is  well  to  start  children  free  and  un- 

[29] 


THE      HIVE 

afraid.  We  do  not  let  them  dwell  in  thought 
of  pain.  We  do  not  permit  tears.  We  inform 
them  early  that  to  be  sick  is  a  confession  of  un- 
cleanness,  that  lying  is  for  the  use  of  cowards 
only,  and  that  to  be  cruel  marks  the  idiot. 

We  are  occasionally  serious  over  repeated  fail 
ures,  but  we  laugh  over  things  done  well.  Tennis 
has  unfolded  marvellous  possibilities  in  the  train 
ing  of  will  force.  Children  are  shown  that  there 
is  a  mystic  quality  to  all  the  perfect  games — that 
the  great  billiardists  and  tennis  and  baseball  play 
ers  perform  feats  in  higher  space,  whether  they 
know  it  or  not.  There  is  the  essential  ideal  first 
in  the  making  of  the  athlete  as  in  the  making  of 
the  poet.  The  great  moments  of  play  require 
faculties  swifter  and  more  unerring  than  the  hu 
man  eye  or  hand  or  mind.  Ask  the  master  of 
any  game  if  he  had  time  to  think  in  pulling  off 
the  stroke  that  won.  It  is  inspiration  that  he 
uses  quite  the  same  as  the  poet  in  his  high  mo 
ments. 

Education  is  the  preparation  of  the  mind  to 
receive  and  answer  to  inspiration  from  a  plane 
above.  The  more  you  develop  merely  the  brain 
of  a  child,  the  more  he  is  detached  from  the  great 
principles  of  being,  the  more  also  is  he  closed  to  the 
real,  and  subjected  to  the  danger  of  actual  lesion 
and  sickness.  The  more  you  develop  the  spirit  of 
a  child,  or  rather  give  the  significant  One  within 
an  opportunity  to  come  forth  and  be  the  child, 
[30] 


QUICKENINGS 


the  more  you  make  for  beauty,  health,  goodness 
and  glory  of  bodily  life.  ...  A  lucky  day  when 
you  start  really  to  associate  with  your  children, 
luckier  still  when  you  undertake  the  work  of 
teaching  them  incidental  to  your  own  work.  Then 
and  there,  you  begin  to  realise  that  children  are 
close  to  a  source  of  things  that  you  cannot  touch. 
Presently  you  realise  that  they  are  teaching 
you.  .  .  . 

Day  after  day  I  have  studied  and  practised  the 
development  of  the  child  from  within  outward. 
I  have  seen  the  capacity  to  synthesise  and  assimi 
late  mere  mental  matters  developed  in  a  year, 
by  training  the  mind  from  the  centre  of  origins 
outward,  that  mental  training  alone  could  never 
accomplish.  The  mind  itself  becomes  vigorous 
and  avid  and  capacious  and  majestically  swift. 
It  is  trained  to  express  its  true  self.  That  is 
power — that  is  king-play.  This  sentence  covers 
the  whole  matter: 

The  perfect  way  to  develop  the  mind  of  the 
child  is  to  teach  him  to  sit  and  listen  at  the  feet 
of  his  own  master^  the  Soul. 

The  right  to  live  and  to  bring  the  laughter  of 
power  to  the  days  must  be  won  afresh  each  morn 
ing.  No  two  days  alike.  We  make  ourselves 
impossible  to  children  of  the  New  Age  by  trying 
to  confine  them  in  the  laws  and  rules  of  yester 
day.  The  young  people  whom  I  serve  live  in  a 
different  intensity.  Their  interest  flags  if  I  repeat, 


THE      HIVE 

if  I  fall  into  familiar  rhythms.  Continually  they 
spur  me  on.  I  think,  after  all,  great  teaching 
is  the  capacity  to  feel  what  the  younger  minds 
are  thinking.  If  we  are  too  coarse  to  catch  the 
first  warning  of  their  resistance,  they  slip  farther 
and  farther  from  our  grasp. 

It  would  not  seem  possible  to  hold  American 
young  people  with  spiritual  affairs ;  yet  this  is  done 
daily.  We  call  the  Unseen — the  great  gamble. 
I  have  shown  how  all  else  betrays — how  all  mat 
ter  is  a  mockery  at  the  last — that  even  love  and 
friendship  fail  for  those  who  are  called  to  weep 
and  worship  wholly  at  the  tomb  of  the  body.  .  .  . 
The  truth  is  out:  The  beginnings  of  real  teach 
ing  is  in  making  the  Unseen  interesting  and  dra 
matic. 

We  dwell  upon  the  mystic  white  lines  which 
connect  all  things — the  sources  of  daring  and 
beauty  and  creativeness.  I  ask  my  young  people 
where  they  were — when  they  did  any  rare  and 
improved  bit  of  work,  when  they  felt  like  great 
comrades,  met  some  magnanimous  impulse,  arose 
to  superb  instants  of  play,  or  when  in  Chapel  the 
big  animation  touched  us  all  and  set  us  free. 
They  always  answer  that  they  were  out  of  them 
selves. 

That's  a  secret  of  the  new  teaching  again — 
to  lift  the  students  out  of  themselves.  Men  take 
to  drink  or  drugs  for  this  same  reason:  men  and 
women  set  out  on  the  great  adventures,  pleasures 

[32] 


QUICKENINGS 


and  quests  for  this.  We  hunger  and  toil  for  this 
freedom;  we  suffer  and  adore — to  get  out  of  our 
selves.  Mental  teachings  tie  us  in  more  firmly. 
The  teaching  here — and  no  two  days  alike — is 
to  startle  and  encourage  the  young  minds  to  arise 
and  live  and  breathe  in  that  lovelier  and  more 
spacious  dimension  which  at  least  borders  upon 
the  Unseen.  The  doors  open  and  shut  so  softly. 
One  does  not  know  he  has  been  out — until  he  is 
back  with  strange  light  in  his  eyes  and  in  his  hands 
a  gift  from  the  gods. 

The  essential  spirituality  of  the  new  teaching 
must  not  be  confused  with  religious  affairs  as  they 
are  known  and  exploited  in  the  world.  You  can 
not  teach  the  New  Age  religion  of  the  world's 
kind.  It  has  its  own.  No  dry  as  dust  sage  will 
do.  A  snort  will  answer  your  sanctimoniousness; 
flexible  science  will  reply  to  the  abysses  of 
your  logic.  .  .  .  You  must  be  the  consummate 
artist  if  never  before  in  your  life,  to  teach  the 
beauty  of  the  soul  to  youth.  The  young  workers 
of  the  new  social  order  will  never  bring  forth 
their  great  harvests  from  your  reflected  light.  You 
must  be  spontaneous — you  must  flood  them  with 
pure  solar  gold;  you  must  show  them  by  your 
life  and  your  work,  how  you  come  and  go  into 
the  Unseen. 

There  is  no  rest.  .  .  .  One  commands  his  disci 
ples  to  go  forth  at  last.  The  teacher  strides  for- 
[333 


THE      HIVE 

ward  faster  when  they  cling.  He  tells  them  one 
day  they  must  race  the  gamut  to  follow  him ;  and 
the  next  day  he  puts  another  in  his  place  and  begs 
to  be  allowed  a  cushion  in  the  midst  of  the  chil 
dren.  .  .  .  We  hold  them  by  setting  them  free 
— the  first  law  of  love.  All  unions  of  the  future 
— in  trade  and  friendship  and  matrimony — will 
be  founded  upon  the  principle  of  freedom;  and 
this  is  the  essence  of  the  new  teaching — to  liber 
ate  the  children  into  their  larger  and  God-quick 
ened  selves. 

No  rest  and  no  two  days  alike. 

A  Bob  White  called  me  this  morning  across 
the  uncut  hayfields  at  the  edge  of  the  lake- 
bluff.  .  .  .  His  two  smooth  and  patient  notes 
seemed  to  contain  the  secret  of  putting  off  all 
fret  and  fear  and  unrest.  He  seemed  to  ask  if  I 
had  not  done  this  already — had  not  yet  put  all 
boyish  and  merely  temporal  things  away?  "Not 
yet?  .  .  .  Not  yet?"  he  called  the  question. 

I  answered  that  I  would  try  again,  and  I  set 
out  straightway  to  be  honest  once  more  with  the 
world,  with  the  soil  and  with  myself.  I  would 
begin  with  the  clay  again  to  be  clean — to  rise  and 
think  and  dwell  in  cleanliness,  to  think  no 
thought,  to  perform  no  action  second-rate — to 
begin  with  the  Laugh  again — the  warm  laugh  of 
conquest  that  always  opens  some  inner  door  to 
fresh  powers — to  arise  afresh  in  the  glory  and 
gamble  of  the  Unseen.  ...  I  returned  and  saw 
[34] 


QUICKENINGS 


the  young  ones  one  by  one — from  Tom  and  John 
up  to  the  men  and  women — doing  their  work.  I 
set  about  mine  with  a  laugh  and  called  the  day 
good.  The  teacher  knows  best  who  is  taught. 


3 
CONQUEST    OF    FEARS 


AN  interesting  boy  of  ten  and  I  have 
been    much    together   in    the    open 
weather.     We  have  learned  many 
things,  but  nothing  more  important 
than  what  a  sham  Fear  is.    I  do  not  mean  that  we 
take  chances  or  that  it  is  wise  to  risk  life  or  limb. 
Fine  discrimination  is  back  of  all  training  in  the 
arts  of  life;  still  we  certainly  have  found  that 
Fear  is  a  waster  and  diminisher  of  beauty  and 
power — and  that  it  can  be  mastered. 

About  the  most  fascinating  thing  that  life  has 
shown  me  is  the  way  in  which  fine  examples  of 
the  younger  generation  learn  the  deeper  matters 
of  life — matters  of  self-mastery  which  make  the 
very  presence  of  a  lad  significant  to  a  stranger, 
and  which  formerly  were  supposed  to  be  secrets 
for  the  sons  of  kings  alone. 

"Do  you  fear  anything1?"  I  ask.     "Look  deep. 
Listen  deep — do  you   fear  anything?  .  .  .  It's 
like  the  pain  that  tells  you  of  a  weakness  or 
[36] 


CONQUEST     OF      FEARS 

disease.  Fear  is  an  unerring  reminder  of  a  task 
of  conquest  ahead  for  you.  That  which  you  fear 
most  is  the  thing  to  conquer  first." 

There  had  been  much  of  this  talk  of  Fear  before 
a  laughable  personal  experience  showed  me  how 
much  I  asked. 

I  crossed  a  mesa  and  came  to  an  abrupt  drop 
off — two  hundred  feet  sheer.  It  astonished  me. 
I  hadn't  experienced  anything  like  this  quiver  of 
horror  for  years.  All  members  and  muscles  bolted 
at  the  thought  of  advancing  closer  to  the  edge.  I 
sat  down  to  think  it  out.  It  never  had  occurred 
before  that  I  wasn't  my  nervous  system,  and  must 
not  let  it  get  me  down. 

The  more  I  thought,  the  more  I  perceived  that  I 
must  do  the  thing  I  dreaded  so.  In  fact,  I  had 
told  trusting  young  people  that  they  were  not 
their  bodies,  not  their  emotions,  not  even  their 
minds — that  these  must  be  made  to  obey.  Here 
I  had  a  chance  to  prove  if  I  were  less  in  action 
than  talk.  I  forced  my  fluttering  young 
self  to  the  edge.  .  .  .  Dizziness — wobbly  limbs, 
fancied  shoves  from  behind,  the  call  of  the  huge 
shadowed  space  below,  a  queer  sense  of  parting 
in  mid-air,  the  body  thumping  down,  another  and 
liberated  self  gladly  spurning  the  ground — all 
these  symptoms  of  panic  followed  swiftly. 

I  held  until  calm  came,  and  I  then  could  study 
this  little  coil  of  forgotten  fears — a  civilised 
mess.  .  .  .  The  weakness  was  absurdly  easy  to 

[371 


THE      HIVE 

overcome  after  the  will  was  once  aroused.  There's 
no  end  or  limitation  to  will  force  when  awakened. 
The  greater  the  man,  the  more  awe  he  has  for  this 
subject.  There's  a  glow  that  follows  conquest 
of  any  kind;  the  mere  call  of  the  will  to  action 
brings  a  sense  of  power  in  the  heart.  There  is 
no  way  more  speedily  to  dispel  pain,  anger,  pas 
sion,  fear,  or  any  of  these  tentacles  of  personality 
— than  to  summon  the  power  of  will  to  instant 
action.  The  particular  matter  of  this  precipice 
showed  me  a  trick  about  calling  up  the  force — 
priceless  to  me  afterward  in  bigger  tests,  and  for 
opening  the  way  of  self-conquest  to  boys. 

One  must  decide  what  one  wants  to  do — then 
carry  it  out  to  the  death.  Discrimination,  art, 
all  culture  and  knowledge  may  be  brought  to 
bear  in  making  the  decision — but  after  that,  it 
must  be  carried  out — just  that. 

Fears  belong  to  the  abdomen.  You  can  feel 
them  there.  They  are  quicker  than  thought. 
Perhaps  you  had  a  twinge  of  nerves  over  some 
sight  or  sound  or  odour,  before  your  mind  could 
tell  you  what  you  were  afraid  of.  ...  I 
have  often  told  the  young  ones  here — listen 
ing  a  bit  to  my  own  voice — that  there  isn't  any 
thing  living  or  dead,  phantom,  shell,  or  living 
soul,  that  has  got  the  authority  to  make  the  spirit 
of  man  quail. 

Courage  is  spirit. 

[38] 


CONQUEST     OF      FEARS 


Most  people  don't  care  to  try  to  deal  with 
it;  they  let  it  have  its  way.  .  .  .  Do  you  recall 
the  fears  of  the  dark  room  as  a  child — fear  al 
ways  stealing  behind — upstairs  alone,  the  rush  to 
the  light,  almost  screaming  tension  ?  .  .  .  I  heard 
a  patter  of  steps  the  other  evening  and  knew  the 
whole  story — a  boy  of  seven.  He  had  been  sent 
upstairs  without  a  light.  I  sent  him  back,  told 
him  to  stay  there  until  he  got  himself  in  hand — 
to  stay  in  the  dark  and  think  the  bogie  down. 
He  was  well  afterward. 

I  have  known  some  under-fire  work.  A  man 
soon  gets  himself  in  hand  to  look  straight  at  a 
white-fringed  trench.  Fear  of  sharks  furnished 
another  test.  From  a  child  the  deep-sea  devour- 
ers  had  an  exquisite  fascination  for  me — to  be  cut 
in  two  under  brine,  white  belly,  backward  mouth, 
black-rimmed,  hairy  pig  eyes,  the  double-rows  of 
teeth.  .  .  .  Pacific  Islanders  swim  in  the  same 
harbour  with  fourteen-foot  scavengers,  careless  of 
whole  schools  of  monsters,  yet  scurry  to  their 
boats  at  the  sight  of  one  solitary,  different  fin.  I 
had  seen  the  so-called,  man-eating  brutes,  "grey 
nurses,"  dim  grey  horrors  with  dull  black  spots. 
A  well-fed  imagination  also  came  into  play. 

I  went  swimming  in  the  surf  with  a  splen 
did  Australian  chap — a  doctor  home  from  the 
trenches.  .  .  .  He  left  me  back  in  the  surf  lines 
and  started  out  to  sea.  I  finished  my  swim  de- 
[39] 


THE      HIVE 

cently  in  toward  North  America,  and  lay  on  the 
strand.  From  time  to  time  off  in  the  sunset  I  saw 
my  friend's  head.  ...  I  was  glad  to  grab  the 
beach-comber  when  he  came  in. 

"It's  all  perfectly  sane  and  splendid,"  I  said, 
"and  I'm  glad  to  have  you  back  for  supper  with 
us,  and  the  billows  out  yonder  are  doubtless  all 
that  you  say,  for  an  afternoon's  lie-up,  only  I 
venture  to  ask — what  if  a  grey  nurse  should  hap 
pen  in  from  the  lower  islands'?" 

"You  don't  think  about  them,"  he  said. 

That's  about  all  there  is  to  the  fear  subject. 
You  don't  let  it  get  you.  There  is  nothing  worth 
fearing  in  or  above  or  under  the  plane  of  mani 
festation.  ...  So  I  tried  that  out  in  deep  water. 
The  old  horrors  succumbed  like  the  fear  of  the 
precipice,  but  not  so  readily,  quite.  One  can 
imagine  keenly  in  the  dim  deep ;  the  touch  of  sea 
weed  quickens  all  the  monsters  of  the  mind.  .  .  . 

There's  nothing  fit  to  be  afraid  of,  unless  it 
is  the  self.  When  we  get  the  ape  and  the  tiger, 
the  peacock  and  the  porpoise,  the  lizard  and  the 
shark  and  the  carcajou  of  our  own  natures  mas 
tered,  there  isn't  anything  left  to  do  but  to  tally 
them  off  outside,  a  friendly  finish  with  them  all. 
No  menagerie  is  complete  as  man's,  and  each  of  us 
favours  some  species  from  time  to  time. 

I  have  thought  much  about  fear.  In  another 
place  I  told  how  we  have  overcome  inertia;  how 

[40] 


CONQUEST     OF      FEARS 


we  developed  senses  through  the  hard  administry 
of  fear  and  hunger,  anger  and  the  rest.  Now, 
however,  these  must  be  overcome.  .  .  .  One  of 
the  last  physical  fears  to  let  go  in  my  case  is  that 
for  the  hangman's  rope.  I  think  Roger  Casement 
really  wanted  the  axe  in  preference  to  the  hemp. 
Steadily  facing  a  repulsion,  it  surely  vanishes. 

The  point  of  it  all  is  that  you  can  teach  self- 
command  to  the  children.  ...  I  took  a  girl  of 
fourteen  to  my  precipice — left  her  there  standing 
on  the  very  edge.  After  a  few  minutes  I  called. 
Her  face  was  calm  as  if  she  had  gazed  from  a 
porch.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  feel  any  fear*?5'  I  asked. 

"Only  yours  for  me,"  she  answered. 

It  was  very  true.  I  had  the  thing  whipped  for 
myself,  but  it  had  been  hard  to  leave  her  there. 

Finally  I  took  the  smaller  boys  out  for  a  test. 
They  didn't  know  I  was  testing  them.  Children 
haven't  the  fear  of  height  such  as  we  put  on.  I 
recalled  a  score  of  episodes  of  my  own  boy-days, 
in  which  I  startled  the  elders  by  Sam  Patch  imi 
tations.  Also  I  have  put  the  young  ones  through 
some  deep  water  affairs.  .  .  . 

You  may  not  be  able  to  get  it  quite — but  all 
fear  is  illusion.  Every  inner  beast  mastered  makes 
us  stronger.  These  animals  within  are  our  cosmos 
to  rule.  We  do  not  know  how  beautiful  they  are 
until  we  lose  our  fear  for  them.  Boys  and  girls 


THE      HIVE 

here  are  learning  these  things  and  putting  them  in 
action. 

The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  also  within.  Fear, 
passion,  anger,  poverty,  and  the  like — all 
represent  areas  of  our  own  kingdom  not 
yet  brought  under  perfect  cultivation. 
After  the  emotional  and  physical  conquests 
come  the  psychic  ones — hard  matters  of 
mastery  pertaining  to  the  heart  and  mind — 
to  know,  to  do,  to  dare,  to  keep  silent — 
then  the  finding  of  the  hidden  treasures  of  the 
subconscious,  mystic  fleets  that  sail  those  dim 
seas,  as  yet  uncharted  for  most  of  us.  ...  After 
that,  the  Soul.  At  last  we  must  be  potent 
enough  to  stand  eye  to  eye  in  the  presence  of  the 
King  Himself. 

(From  looking  steadily  over  an  escarpment  of 
two  or  three  hundred  feet  drop,  to  gazing  at  the 
world  from  the  forward  cockpit  of  an  airplane  at 
two  or  three  thousand  feet,  isn't  such  a  long  step 
as  you  would  imagine.  The  fact  is,  I  was  in  no 
way  terrified  in  my  first  flight,  and  fear  certainly 
crawled  me  full  length  as  I  stood  that  time  at 
the  edge  of  the  mesa.  Our  young  people  have  the 
call  to  test^  the  new  dimension  of  wings.  This 
zeal  corresponds  in  a  unique  way  with  the  new 
education.  Intellect  stays  upon  the  ground.  In 
tuition  is  the  lifting  of  the  wings  of  the  mind. 

I  had  already  begun  to  make  friendly  visits  to 
an  aerodrome  at  the  edge  of  the  Pacific  when  the 

[42] 


CONQUEST     OF      FEARS 


following  letter  came  from  the  Abbot,*  who  is 
now  seventeen  and  in  New  York : 

.  .  .  Perhaps  Steve  told  you  that  I  had  a 
ride  in  an  airplane  about  three  weeks  ago.  Man ! 
'Tis  the  place  for  me!  Next  summer,  soon  as 
school  dissipates,  I  attach  my  name  to  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps.  The  psychic  effect  of  a  flight  is 
wonderful — like  travelling  over  a  very  tall  bridge. 
The  Atlantic  coast  for  many  miles  lay  in  profile 
as  a  map,  the  roads  stretched  as  thin  mathematical 
lines ;  forests  as  darker  shadows  of  the  earth ;  New 
York  as  a  blotch  of  smoke  and  curious  patchwork. 
For  twenty  minutes  we  sailed  around  and  around, 
just  as  you've  seen  a  gull  pinion,  then  we  came 
to  earth;  waited  until  it  got  dark,  then  up  again. 
.  .  .  Lights  of  the  aerodrome  lay  like  jewels 
upon  the  earth,  but  up,  up  we  went,  faster  and 
higher,  the  roar  of  the  propeller  providing  a  steady 
nervous  outlet.  I  could  shout  my  lungs  out — I 
had  to  relieve  myself  of  the  excess  thrill. 

Then  what  should  happen?  Red,  a  tiny  rim, 
like  the  disc  of  a  golden  dollar,  the  sun  began  to 
lift  up  from  the  horizon  again.  The  higher  we 
went,  the  higher  it  lifted,  until  there  it  hung,  as 
a  golden  bulb,  a  swollen  orange  off  in  the  mighty 
stretches, — pure,  golden, — while  below  twinkled 
the  town's  lights.  'Twas  the  fullest,  richest,  most 
brimming  moment  I've  ever  had.  The  awe  of  the 
cosmos  overtakes  the  heart  and  lays  down  its  stu 
pendous  laws.  The  distance  between  sun  and 
'plane  seemed  a  golden  pathway  that  ever  could 

*  Fred  Jasperson. 

[43] 


THE      HIVE 

absorb  your  flight.  I  was  aware  only  of  worship 
ping  God,  and  that  roar  of  the  machine  made  one 
think  of  the  roar  of  the  planets,  comets,  meteors, 
all  the  suns,  roa-oa-ring.  What  a  romance! 
Finding  the  sun ! 

.  .  .  No  discussion  of  the  fear  element  what 
soever  in  the  letter.  .  .  . 

The  old  thrills  won't  do  for  the  new  race.  I 
took  a  pair  of  screen-trained  young  ones  to  a  cir 
cus  recently  and  became  absorbed  at  their  mild 
boredom.  Alcohol  is  too  slow  and  coarse  for  the 
wastrel  tendencies  of  the  modern  hour.  The  sad 
ones  of  the  new  generation  use  high  potency  drugs 
to  forget  the  drag  of  time  and  space.  A  new 
dimension  is  required  in  all  things.  The  young 
men  of  the  new  race  make  light  of  our  old  dreads 
and  are  learning  winged  ways  to  heaven  and  to 
hell. 


[441 


4 
THE   STUFF   OF  COMRADES 


I  WONDER  if  I  can  make  clearer,  by  turn 
ing  a  few  different  facets  in  this  chapter, 
what  we  mean  by  friends,  comrades,  the 
spirit  of  things,  and  love  not  as  an  emo 
tion  but  as  a  cosmic  force.     Many  days  I  have 
faced  a  Chapel,  as  I  face  this  day's  work,  long 
ing  to  bring  in  closer  the  dream  of  the  new  social 
order,  yet  dismayed  by  the  limitations  of  words 
and  my  own  mind,  trained  so  long  in  the  life  of 
the  old.  ...  I  would  begin  to  talk,  drawing  the 
young  minds  to  mine  through  an  intimate  revela 
tion  of  the  heart,  then  presently  lose  the  sense  of 
effort,  even  the  sense  of  thought — and  an  hour 
would  pass  in  the  joy  of  communal  blessedness, 
because  we  were  one. 

Man  is  not  getting  larger,  though  he  is  con 
tinually  holding  more.  The  human  brain,  after 
it  reaches  a  certain  age  and  size,  may  gain  there 
after  a  conception  of  the  universe  without  alter 
ing  the  size  of  the  hat-band.  There  is  a  continual 

[451 


THE      HIVE 

condensation  at  work  within  us  mentally  and 
physically.  We  take  the  cream  of  the  thing,  and 
throw  the  rest  away.  The  wiser  and  the  more 
inclusive  we  become,  the  more  we  take  just  the 
spirit  of  a  thing,  and  leave  the  bulk  and  weight 
behind. 

This  is  true  in  our  every  refinement,  in  the 
clothes  we  wear,  the  food  we  eat,  the  books  we 
read  and  the  friends  we  gather  together.  We 
become  harder  and  harder  to  suit,  because  bulk 
and  weight  are  common,  but  the  spiritual  extract 
of  anything  is  slow  to  appear  for  us.  The  wiser 
the  man,  the  more  fastidious  he  is,  and  this  does 
not  mean  that  he  is  a  crank.  The  excellence  of 
fastidiousness  is  not  in  eccentricity  but  in  inclu- 
siveness.  In  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  he  sees  all. 
From  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  he  expresses  in  his 
own  way  any  part.  He  can  array  whole  hier 
archies  of  facts  from  the  spirit  of  the  whole,  but 
mainly  he  leaves  the  facts  in  reference-libraries, 
where  they  belong  and  are  quickly  available,  and 
stores  away  in  his  working  faculties  just  a  drop 
of  the  oil  of  a  subject  or  a  breath  from  its  es 
sence. 

There  are  those  who  believe  that  the  soul  of 
man  is  made  up  of  essences  of  experiences  of 
thousands  of  lives — yet  the  refinement  of  the  soul 
is  so  spiritualised  that  the  best  surgeon  cannot 
find  the  little  organ.  He  knows  the  brain,  which 
is  made  up  of  the  stored  experiences  of  but  one 

[46] 


THE      STUFF     OF      COMRADES 

life,  but  because  the  soul  is  so  small  or  so  diffused, 
the  surgeon  is  very  apt  to  say  that  there  is  no 
such  organ.  And  yet,  we  all  know  there  is  knowl 
edge  and  power  behind  us,  which  drives  us,  in  our 
greater  moments,  to  utterances  and  action  entirely 
without  the  scope  of  the  brain.  We  may  call 
this  the  soul,  or  the  nth  power,  or  the  fourth 
dimension — the  name  doesn't  matter.  .  .  .  Lis 
ten,  if  I  write  well  to-day — I  mean  well  for  me 
— if  I  rise  to  the  opportunity  at  all,  it  will  be 
because  I  am  writing  things  which  my  brain  doesn't 
know. 

I  yearn  to  make  this  still  clearer.  .  .  .  The 
rose,  which  is  the  highest  evolved  of  flowers,  in 
cludes  all  the  evolution  of  plant-life  of  its  line 
beneath;  the  same  with  gold  among  the  minerals. 
The  fact  that  each  is  the  highest  necessitates  that. 
In  the  same  way,  man  includes  Nature  and  the 
lower  creatures,  in  that  he  is  the  highest.  This  is 
easily  proven  to  you  when  you  recall  that  a  child 
in  the  womb  passes  through  all  states  of  creature 
evolution.  That  period  is,  in  a  wonderful  way,  a 
review  of  the  evolution  of  the  world. 

The  mere  fact  that  the  higher  one  climbs,  the 
farther  one  can  see,  proves  it  again.  This  is  a 
law.  The  scent  of  a  rose  is  the  sublimate  of  all 
plant  odours;  and  the  spirit  of  man  is  the  refine 
ment  of  all  knowledge  and  experience  beneath. 

The  higher  man  ascends,  the  more  inclusive. 
[47] 


THE      HIVE 

To  heal  another,  the  physician  must  be  able  to 
include  the  other.  Evolution  is  continual  refine 
ment — the  drawing  unto  ourselves  of  the  spirit 
of  bulks  of  matter.  I  stood  upon  a  bluff  overlook 
ing  the  ocean  recently,  and  a  breath  of  the  south 
wind  awakened  in  my  mind  the  story  of  one 
whole  summer ;  others  have  listened  to  forest  trees 
or  the  humming  roar  of  a  distant  city,  or  the  rush 
of  a  great  river,  and  found  in  them  the  aggregate 
of  all  Nature's  sounds  in  one  tone.  This  is  the 
magic  of  the  spirit  of  things. 

In  all  philosophy,  there  is  no  difference  of  opin 
ion  as  to  one  fact,  that  man  is  unfolding  a  micro 
cosm  within  himself,  including  in  his  conscious 
ness  more  and  more  the  Idea  of  the  Universe. 
The  cosmic  consciousness,  which  a  few  have  at 
tained,  is  the  actual  perception  of  the  externals 
of  the  Plan. 

The  cream  of  anything  includes  all  the  parts. 
The  cosmic  mind  must  include  the  essence  of  all 
arts  and  experiences  and  facts.  Just  as  the  rose 
and  the  man  and  the  grain  of  dust  are  potential 
with  all  beneath,  the  highest  man,  the  cosmic  in 
telligence,  is  potentially  the  cosmos  in  containing 
the  Idea  of  it. 

This  idea  may  be  contained  in  and  expressed 
outwardly  by  some  great  single,  all-including,  all- 
mastering  emotion — such  as  love.  And  now  we 
are  in  a  region  where  there  can  be  no  difference 

[48] 


THE     STUFF     OF      COMRADES 

of  opinion;  at  least  I  have  never  heard  disputed 
what  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world. 

There  are  all  kinds  of  love.  The  simple  man 
loves  simply — himself,  his  woman,  his  children 
and  his  animals.  The  love  of  the  cosmic  conscious 
ness  breaks  forth  in  a  deluge  upon  the  race,  be 
cause  it  comprehends  and  includes  all  beneath. 
This  great  outpouring  is  formed  of  earth,  air, 
water,  fire,  sunlight  and  all  winds,  all  facts,  all 
experiences,  all  arts,  light  of  the  moon  and  stars 
and  all  glowing  things  under  the  sun,  all  sounds 
and  scents  and  pictures,  all  ardours,  and  sympa 
thies  and  tolerances.  Its  outpouring  is  action, 
and  is  of  itself  creative.  This  is  the  OM.  Such 
a  love  leavens  and  impregnates  all  things,  be 
cause  it  understands  and  includes  all  things.  It 
unifies  all  separateness ;  it  enfolds  all  intelligence 
with  intuition;  it  unites  all  parts. 

This  brings  us  to  that  ancient  and  unassailable 
premise  of  all  religions — that  God  includes  every 
part  of  the  universe  in  being  the  spirit  of  it; 
that  His  idea  of  creativeness  is  expressed  in  one 
great  single,  all-mastering  and  including  emotion, 
— which  is  love.  We  hear  the  little  children  say 
ing  it,  "God  is  love." 

.  .  .  We  awaken  the  Ideal  in  ourselves  first 
by  imitating  the  virtues  of  others.  In  the  earlier 
days  when  to  me  courage  meant  physical  action, 
men  passed  in  different  fields,  leaving  an  imper- 

[49] 


THE      HIVE 

ishable  remembrance.  I  have  often  seen  the  ex 
pressions  of  those  I  loved  and  idealised  as  a  boy, 
live  again  in  the  faces  of  my  own  children.  John 
T.  McCutcheon  in  Luzon,  filling  a  reel  of  films, 
under  a  volley  of  fire  at  Binan,  on  his  knees,  work 
ing  the  camera  with  a  whole  brigade  sprawled 
behind — gave  me  one  of  the  finest  early  building 
blocks  for  the  courage  among  men.  He  also  gave 
me  an  ideal  of  cleanliness :  One  evening,  after  a 
vicious  day's  march,  and  we  were  all  ravenous, 
John  T.  left  camp  to  find  a  river.  There  he  bathed 
with  government  bouquet, — made  himself  right 
with  himself,  even  to  shaving,  before  meat 
and  drink.  His  constraint  looked  like  mas 
tery  to  me  then.  Grant  Wallace  was  a  big  star 
of  that  service — ideal  in  performance  of  friend 
ship.  .  .  .  Young  men  at  hand  now  are  different. 
Not  one  of  them  lack  in  grip  and  grit.  They 
reveal  the  new  thing  in  courage,  the  courage  that 
begins  where  the  courage  of  the  soldier  ends. 
These  have  gone  far  into  the  mystery  of  their  own 
kingdoms — rapidly  becoming  kings  of  themselves. 
The  world  doesn't  understand  them.  The  Ab 
bot*  is  a  sensation  in  literary  matters  at  Colum 
bia,  but  unplaced.  The  Dakotan  *  was  said  to 
be  unfit  for  a  soldier  because  he  was  twenty  pounds 
under  weight  for  his  height.  He  can  leap  five 

*  These  appear  in   Child  and  Country. 
[50] 


THE      STUFF     OF      COMRADES 

feet  six,  run  or  hike  indefinitely,  exhaust  a  ce 
ment-mixer,  say  "stick"  in  all  tongues  and  "quit" 
in  none.  He  has  the  will  and  wisdom  to  make 
himself  a  new  man  over  night — and  yet  his  Gov 
ernment  wants  him  served  up  just  so,  in  pounds. 
There  isn't  any  one  loves  America  more  than  the 
Dakotan,  whom  we  now  call  Steve.  Even  the 
young  military  surgeons  will  know  before  long 
that  endurance  is  a  matter  of  spiritual  culture, 
that  courage  is  spirit — that  a  man  is  well  because 
of  cleanliness  of  body  and  thought  and  organised 
will;  that  he  doesn't  fail  in  a  pinch  because  he 
is  evolved;  that  all  the  higher  forms  of  life  call 
for  speed  rather  than  strength,  the  levitating 
force  of  spirit  rather  than  the  gravitating  force 
of  flesh,  for  brain  rather  than  brute.  .  .  .  Com 
rade  stuff  is  the  stuff  of  souls.  .  .  .  I've  studied 
them  long  and  devotedly.  I  build  my  days  upon 
the  things  these  boys  show  me.  Less  and  less  are 
we  different  from  those  who  call  to  our  hearts. 

These  young  men  do  not  think  themselves  out; 
they  are  not  troubled  by  misses  or  personal  dis 
crepancies.  They  simply  are  themselves.  I  have 
perceived  that  men  of  dreams  and  genius  and  ac 
tion  are  in  the  larger  sense  free  from  themselves. 
The  main  part  of  their  day's  performance  is  a 
lifting  out  of  the  tangle  of  emotion  and  desire,  into 
a  large,  unrestricted  area  full  of  calm  daylight, 
where  events  and  movements  are  seen  in  their  rela- 


THE      HIVE 

tion  to  one  another,  not  in  separateness  and  one 
at  a  time,  an  area  also  where  inspiration  is  mo 
mentarily  expected  to  strike.  They  do  not  ana 
lyse  themselves.  They  do  not  hear  their  own 
voices.  They  are  not  dismayed  if  they  falter  or 
drop  from  the  key.  The  things  that  most  men 
do  with  care,  and  that  occupy  so  much  of  the  days 
these  young  men  perform  automatically. 

My  own  path  was  upward  through  an  intense 
self-consciousness — the  American,  not  the  oriental 
way.  I  lived  with  myself  all  the  route.  I  ob 
served  outward  conditions  and  events,  domestic, 
civic  and  cosmic;  but  at  the  same  time  observed 
their  effects  upon  myself.  I  did  not  know  until 
I  was  adult  that  there  is  a  big  receptivity  of  con 
sciousness  above  this — where  intuitions  play  and 
weave  causes  and  effects  together — where  the 
mind  is  more  like  a  child's  than  a  man's,  or  more 
like  a  giant's,  perhaps — where  the  big  faith  comes, 
and  the  warm  laugh  comes,  and  man  surpasses 
himself,  but  does  not  know  until  afterward,  if 
at  all. 

Warmth  flooded  into  me  as  I  touched  this  larger 
consciousness.  It  became  clear  as  daylight — 
that  a  man  is  at  his  best  only  when  out  of  himself. 
I  saw  much  of  my  misery  and  depression  was 
the  result  of  self-analysis.  I  was  a  better  man 
when  I  let  myself  go  utterly.  And  this  was  ex 
actly  the  thing  that  happened  in  moments  of  dan- 

[52] 


THE      STUFF      OF      COMRADES 

ger,  moments  of  romance    and    friendship,    mo 
ments  of  the  self  hurling  itself  outward.    Capacity 
for  these  moments  makes  the  Comrade,  and  indi 
cates  that  love  which  is  not  a  sentiment,  but  a 
cosmic  force. 

Again,  you  cannot  describe  a  spiritual  thing 
with  these  little  tools  and  materials  in  black  and 
white — just  intimations.  ...  If  we  are  sweet 
enough  inside,  something  of  the  song  will  come 
to  us.  ...  Two  words  suggest  it  best.  The  first 
is  Comrade,  which  has  become  a  silliness  in  a  mili 
tary  sense,  yet  has  a  high  and  holy  meaning  to 
all  reconstructionists.  ...  I  remember  when  the 
word  first  came  to  me  with  a  thrill,  as  a  young 
lad  going  off  to  Cuban  wars.  It  was  burned  out 
of  me  a  few  days  afterward  in  a  Sibley  tent  full 
of  regular  army  soldiers.  ...  I  remember  the 
scorn  with  which  I  used  the  word  all  the  years — 
or  avoided  using  it — until  slowly,  smilingly,  its 
new  dimension  opened,  hard  as  a  diamond,  and  as 
clear — its  meaning  in  work  and  world  and 
women,  its  new  meaning  to  Russia  and  India  and 
China  and  America. 

It  seems  to  say  "Equality :  It's  a  kind  of  deep 
drink  of  spirit  together,  a  word  spoken  at  the 
last  moment  between  men — an  inner-shrine  word, 
spoken  with  a  smile,  and  a  glimpse  into  the  eter 
nal  indestructibility  of  the  human  heart.  It  ex 
presses  the  love  of  the  world,  not  as  it  is  felt  in 

[53] 


THE      HIVE 

the  brain,  but  in  the  breast  of  the  soul.  The  New 
Race  has  already  washed  it  clean.  It  goes  with 
a  Cause  fit  to  die  for.  It  belongs  to  men  and 
women  who  can  look  at  each  other  with  a  kind  of 
prayer  in  their  eyes  and  face  death  alone  and 
laugh  at  it. 

There's  a  fury,  too,  in  the  word — fury  against 
the  world,  against  things  as  they  are.  It  stands 
against  the  world-darkness  now,  and  for  the  day 
that  is  to  be.  It  means  love  for  the  poor,  a  love 
for  the  peasants,  a  passion  to  serve  and  be  tender 
to  them,  not  to  drive  them  into  the  pits  of  death — 
a  readiness  to  die  for  them  without  cant,  a  readi 
ness  also  to  dare  to  live  for  them. 

Comrade — there's  vision  in  it  to  strip  off  the 
masks  of  decadent  nations,  to  open  wide  the  sepul 
chres  where  the  priests  are  still  plotting  to  crucify 
the  King;  its  strong  magic  will  uncover  the  mo 
notonous  crimes  of  commerce.  ...  It  signifies 
the  spirit  of  the  young  men  and  women  who  have 
already  begun  with  gladness  and  fire  to  clear  the 
debris  for  the  building  of  the  New  Age. 

They  will  begin  with  the  soil;  they  will  know 
and  love  their  own  hard  part.  They  will  begin 
with  the  grass,  with  the  rice,  with  the  millet  and 
the  wheat,  the  clean  things,  the  simple  and  holy 
things  that  the  peasants  love,  with  the  songs  that 
the  peasants  sing,  the  songs  of  the  soil  and  the 
rivers  and  snows — to  build  upon  them  the  new 

[54] 


THE      STUFF     OF      COMRADES 

heaven  and  the  new  earth.  .  .  .  Above  all,  there's 
a  laugh  in  the  word — the  laugh  of  youth  and 
power. 

The  other  word  is  Democracy. 


5 
JOHN'S   THINGS 


H 


ERE  are  some  of  John's  things, 
mainly  letters  to  the  Old  Man.  Cal 
ifornia  called  hard  for  the  recent 
winter,  and  I  went  out  a  few  weeks 
ahead  of  the  Stonestudy  outfit.  John  intended 
to  follow  within  three  weeks,  but  overturned  a 
kettle  of  boiling  water  in  his  lap,  and  was  unable 
to  leave  his  quarters  for  three  times  that  period. 
We  all  learned  better  the  hard  lesson — to  wait. 
The  quoted  word  "Play"  in  his  first  letter  refers 
to  a  little  slip  of  paper  which  I  had  pasted  upon 
my  typewriter.  There  has  been  a  big  tendency 
in  recent  months,  in  my  case,  to  let  down  all  ten 
sion  in  relation  to  literary  production — the  idea 
being  that  when  one  has  learned  all  the  laws  he  is 
capable  of,  the  time  is  at  hand  when  it  is  well  to 
forget  them.  I  have  written  several  times  through 
out  this  book  of  an  ideal  emergence  of  Workman 
into  Player.  We  learn  many  laws,  to  learn  at  last 
that  there  are  none.  We  come  up  through  many 

[56] 


JOHNS     THINGS 


slaveries  to  freedom.  ...  I  have  not  corrected 
all  the  spelling  in  John's  documents.  The  point 
most  interesting  is  how  the  real  voice  breaks 
through  the  mind  of  a  child  of  nine  from  time  to 
time. 

DEAR  YOUNERVERS*  PAL: 

We  got  your  letter  but  it  was  not  like  you  for 
it  was  not  type-written.  Your  old  machine  here 
is  going  grand.  I  am  using  it  now.  It  seems 
that  I  am  with  you  all  the  time.  Comrad  has 
meant  a  lot  the  last  four  days  to  me.  Comrad  is 
everything  in  the  New  Race.  Masters  will  be 
comrads  with  every  one. 

That  "Play"  has  ijt  all,  on  your  machine. 
"Play"  is  in  all  somewhere.  It  is  all  like  a  big 
page  and  everything  is  woven  on  it.  There  is  a 
time  when  Comrads  hafto  go  apart  for  a  little 
while,  but  not  long.  Their  thoughts  never  go 
apart.  They  are  always  pulling  together,  always 
weaving  in  thoughts  and  things  that  are  the  same. 
It  is  wounderful — a  parting.  No  sadness  over  it. 
It  is  the  best  that  could  come,  or  it  would  not. 
We  are  held  together.  The  pull  of  the  world  is 
nothing  to  us. 

It  is  hard  to  keep  high,  but  we  will.  Fred* 
and  I  take  a  swim  every  day.  I  go  a  hundred 

*  Universe. 

*  The  Abbot. 

[57] 


THE      HIVE 

and  fifty  feet.    Then  we  come  up  and  rub  each 
other. 

True  Comrads  have  it  all.  Love  from  Com- 
rad  to  Comrad. 

PAL: 

I  woke  up  this  morning  kind  of  blurred,  and 
got  Irving  and  Steve  to  come  out  and  clean  up 
the  barn.  They  came  and  we  worked  there  all 
morning,  and  then  went  in  for  a  swim.  It  was 
wounderful,  the  feel  I  had  when  I  got  some  clean 
clothes  on  and  had  the  old  dog  *  feeling  good. 
He  is  meditating  over  what  a  wounderful  world  it 
is  now.  The  stall  smells  sweet  as  a  hay-stack. 

Fred  just  got  here  and  is  working  at  your  desk. 

How  was  your  morning'?  I  never  had  a  better 
one,  and  its  the  weary  old  Sabbath,  too. 

Send  for  me  soon  now.  It  seems  that  it  was 
a  year  since  we  have  been  together.  We  can  not 
do  without  each  other.  Send  for  me  Soon.  I 
hold  my  hand  high  to  you. 

DEAR  OLD  MAGIC  FATH  : 

I  am  at  Steve's  desk  in  the  guest  room.  It  is 
the  first  time  that  I  have  touched  the  keys  of  a 
type  writer  since  the  night  I  was  berned.  It  sure 
does  feel  good. 

It  has  been  much  more  wonderful  to  hafto  have 
Patience  for  the  Meeting.  It  will  be  twice  as 

*  The  saddle  horse. 

[58] 


JOHNS      THINGS 


great  for  both.  I  have  needed  you  so  since  I  have 
been  in  bed.  In  pane  and  sicknes  there  is  noth 
ing  that  you  need  so  much  as  your  Comrad. 

I  felt  palms  up  to  everything.  It  is  all  good. 
We  love  it  all.  It  all  was  something  for  us  to 
get.  It  puts  us  higher  after  something  comes  to 
us  like  that. 

I  have  all  the  pores  poring  out  love  to  you.  We 
are  always  together. 

YOUR  SIDE  KIKER. 

DEAR  OLD  PAL: 

Fred  and  I  slept  again  in  the  Study.  It  looked 
like  a  storm  last  night,  but  it  did  not  come.  Fred 
is  a  real  Comrad.  I  got  to  his  heart  last  night. 
I  do  not  know  how.  The  roses  have  been  woun- 
derful  the  last  few  days. 

How  is  wounderful  Mary?  We  are  all  send 
ing  Thoughts  to  you.  We  have  had  wounderful 
full  days  lately,  all  heat.  The  town  is  howling 
for  rain  now;  they  are  never  satisfied.  We  are 
always  ready  for  anything.  It  is  the  best.  Our 
wounderful  old  mailtrain  just  crossed  the  magic 
lane.  I  love  trains  more  and  more.  They  have 
a  pull  to  my  heart.  We  love  everything. 

I  do  not  feel  on  erth.  I  feel  in  space.  Out 
of  the  draw  of  the  erth — Free. 

Love  always  in  my  heart  for  you.  I  hold  hard 
for  the  time  that  Comrads  pull  together  again  for 
[59] 


THE      HIVE 

the  road,  us  two.     Jane  is  at  my  hump  all  the 
time — so  I  will  quit. 

DEAR  OLD  COMRAD: 

We  are  close  this  morning.  I  can  feel  your 
warm  wounderful  hand  in  mine  this  morning.  We 
are  one.  There  is  the  holy  breath — such  a  great 
pull  of  thoughts  and  work  to  California.  It  seems 
as  if  all  the  Comrads  were  calling  me  there.  Then 
I  hafto  think  of  the  one  thing — Patience.  When 
you  have  mastered  Patience,  you  are  free.  All 
well  here.  My  sores  are  getting  better  fast.  I 
have  wanted  to  work  lots  lately,  since  I  was  in 
bed,  .but  I  could  not.  I  lost  so  many  ideas  in 
bed.  Beds  are  a  curse.  I  love  you,  Comrad. 
We  need  to  be  together. 

YOUR  OLD  PAL. 

SUNLIGHT  PAL: 

A  wounderful  sun.  A  little  late  in  getting  up. 
The  sun  was  out  full — a  wounderful  breakfast 
and  a  wounderful  bowl  of  roses. 

Every  morning  gets  greater.  The  coming  to 
gether  again  gets  closer.  Separation  is  a  great 
thing !  You  find  that  when  it  comes.  It  will  be 
so  big  and  wounderful  to  come  together  on  the 
shores  of  the  sea.  The  trains  on  the  Pere  Mar- 
quette  line  have  a  draw  to  my  heart;  the  whistle 
is  so  wounderful.  .  .  .  To  have  a  bath  in  the 
salt  water  and  not  in  old  Lake  Erie.  ...  It  was 

[60] 


JOHNS      THINGS 


another  wounderful  night  with  Fred.  He  has 
done  so  much  for  me  this  time  that  we  have  been 
away  from  each  other. 

He  is  so  wounderful  if  you  can  get  to  him.  I 
think  I  have  got  right  to  him  to  the  heart.  I  am 
awful  lonesome  for  you  and  the  sea. 

I  walked  to  the  train  track  with  Fred  this  morn 
ing.  It  was  like  the  day  you  were  going  away. 
I  felt  it  was  nearing  the  last  walk  up  the  old  Lane. 
Fred  has  the  same  feel.  It  swept  over  us — a  free 
feel ;  it  was  almost  too  much. 

How  is  your  Sisity-list  coming1?  Mine  is 
great.  It  is  hard  to  get  along  without  you  here. 
Old  Abe  was  drafted,  and  we  don't  know  when 
we  will  see  him.  The  sea  and  sunlight  sweeping 
in  the  open  door  of  your  work  room!  We  will 
sure  have  some  grand  times.  We  will  get  horses 
and  have  some  more  of  them  Moonlight  rides.  It 
will  be  great  to  hit  the  old  Tie  path  Itself — with 
the  *  Welcome  Mulligan  and  the  f  Onerbel  Chas. 
Lipton  under  our  arms.  The  smell  of  the  burn 
ing  bark  and  a  caben  in  the  Rockies!  Oh,  the 
open  road.  Life  is  Life  on  the  old  Road. 

That  canyon  must  be  a  wounder,  and  the  sea 
and  the  misty  mountains  and  the  brown  hills. 
You  have  it  all.  Oh  man,  that  is  the  country  for 
everything. 

I  keep  high  for  our  meeting,  Comrad  of  the 
Road. 

*  Frying  Pan.  f  Teapot. 

[61] 


THE      HIVE 

PROSE  SETTINGS 
i 

THE  RED  SUNSET. 

The  red  sunset  Died  away  like  the  close  of  a 
forest  fire. 

The  Dusk  ran  through  the  mountains  like  a 
scarf  of  blue. 

The  Moon  and  old  Jupiter  took  the  Open  Road 
together. 

The  others  came  out  of  the  everlasting  Blue 
Deeps. 

ii 

THE  DESERT  NIGHT. 

The  man  at  the  camel  corral  was  fixing  the 
camels  for  the  desert.  Other  men  were  waiting 
at  the  front  of  the  Temple.  Another  came  for 
ward  with  four  camels,  a  pack-beast  and  two  rid 
ers.  Then  all  were  off  over  the  Sun  Betin  Sand. 

Nothing  but  Sand  and  Harizen.  Only  the 
Arab  who  was  ahead  on  the  Old  Camel  knew  the, 
way. 

They  went  on  and  on  over  the  Everlasting 
Sand,  the  Sun  Betin  Sand. 

in 

PINES. 

The  great  wood  is  the  Pines.  The  very  whiff 
of  them  gives  you  the  breath  of  Nature,  the  great 

[62] 


JOHNS     THINGS 


Mother  of  the  planet,  the  mother  of  Love.  Her 
breath  is  the  breath  of  life  and  love,  and  the 
Mouziek  of  the  world. 

TREAS  {California) 

Treas  are  grate.  They  are  so  wild  and  woun- 
derful.  There  is  so  many  kinds  here.  The  trea 
I  love  best  of  them  all,  is  the  U.  K.  Liptes.  It 
is  fragran;  it  has  the  sun  and  the  erth  all  flowers 
and  the  swaying  beauty  of  its  great  youth.  I 
loved  it  from  the  first.  It  is  beauty  that  stays. 

I  went  up  to  a  grove  the  other  day  and  along  a 
little  lone  path — the  mist  and  odor  of  them  lin 
gering  in  deep  shadows.  My  feet  broke  the  deep 
silences  and  a  Voice  came  and  spoke  soft  to  me: 

"If  you  listen  long  enough  you  can  hear "  I 

think  it  was  my  Master  speaking,  for  a  glow  came 
around  me,  after  He  had  spoke. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SPERIT 

Life  is  not  any  good  until  you  forget  your 
boddy;  then  you  get  all  the  power  of  living,  but 
you  can't  do  anything  that  you  feel  like  doing. 

LETHER: 

* 

All  lether  has  a  mystery  in  it.  It  is  the  ani 
mal's  mystery.  The  misteks  of  the  other  world 
know  it,  and  try  to  tell  us.  I  have  been  told  but 

[63] 


THE      HIVE 

my  mind  has  not  received  it.  I  will  hafto  wait 
until  it  does.  I  think  I  will  know  it  all  in  a  fue 
years.  I  will  tell  the  rest  of  the  world,  if  I  hear 
it  first.  I  would  like  to  be  the  first  to  hear  it. 

STONES: 

The  whole  erth  was  of  stone. 

God  thought  that  he  would  make  it  something 
good.  He  sent  the  Old  Mother  Nature  down  and 
she  spent  years  and  years,  but  she  did  not  know 
what  to  put  on  it.  She  went  up  to  God  and  He 
took  her  to  a  room,  and  showed  her  the  things 
that  He  had  to  put  on  the  Erth. 

They  were  sperits,  so  she  got  them  one  at  a 
time  and  brought  them  down. 

In  the  mean  time  she  was  making  other  things. 
They  were  seeds  and  she  planted  these  and  they 
came  up.  It  was  wheat  and  barley  and  other 
things  like  that.  The  sperits  became  people  and 
took  them  for  food,  and  the  old  Mother  is  still 
putting  things  and  bringing  her  sperits  on  the 
Erth.  This  world  is  just  about  filled. 

THE  SPERIT 

At  night  the  Sperit  goes  to  see  God.  It  gets 
fresh  to  make  the  boddy  fresh  every  morning. 
This  is  what  keeps  you  clean.  If  you  were  all 
clean,  you  would  not  die.  You  go  thru  a  hard 

[64] 


JOHNS     THINGS 


life  and  what  is  not  clean  is  burned  off,  and  then 
you  are  pure  to  go  to  heaven.  You  rest  then 
until  you  are  ready  to  come  and  be  a  saint. 

ALONE 

The  sun  beat  hard  upon  the  rocks. 

I  was  alone  in  the  Power  of  the  rocks.  Noth 
ing  was  moving. 

I  was  Alone.     My  Sperit  was  alone. 

It  was  the  loneliest  place  in  the  world. 

No  animal  of  any  kind,  not  a  bird  or  a  snake 
— alone. 

Nature  did  not  even  have  cells  of  thought. 

The  power  of  the  rocks  was  holden  me  there. 

A  thought  came  over  me  that  I  had  never 
known  Home. 

All  of  a  sudden  Nature  spoke,  and  I  was  free 
from  everything. 

I  came  back  to  the  Father. 

EQUALS 

There  is  a  greatness  in  a  man  that  treats  his 
horse  like  his  brother.  A  man  is  a  beast  when  he 
beats  his  horse.  He  is  of  a  lower  Brivahen*  than 
the  horse.  The  man  who  says  to  his  horse  that 
he  is  his  equal,  is  a  great  man,  a  master  of  ani 
mals. 

*  Vibration. 

[65] 


THE      HIVE 

BEAUTY 

When  the  New  Race  comes,  there  will  be 
beauty — real  beauty.  Down  thru  the  ages  peo 
ple  have  talked  of  beauty,  but  they  have  not  seen 
it  really,  yet.  It  will  come  with  the  New  Race 
— beauty  in  everything — in  the  body,  in  writ 
ing,  in  talk,  in  love.  Not  love  one,  but  all.  The 
younerverse  Lovers  will  not  only  love  each  other, 
but  they  will  love  all.  This  war  is  the  great  clean 
up  of  the  world.  After  it  is  all  over,  and  the 
troops  come  all  home  together,  there  will  be  the 
great  New  Race  waiting  for  them  with  open  arms 
— then  all  will  be  real  beauty. 

THE  HOLD  UP  AND  THE  GET  AWAY 

...  It  was  the  first  time  Denver  Bill  had  come 
in  without  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth.  They 
wanted  to  know  why  he  wasn't  smoking,  but  they 
didn't  ask. 

He  ordered  the  same  drink  and  took  it  fast.  .  .  . 
He  chucked  the  chair  over,  grabbed  the  tellfon 
off  the  table  and  gave  "Hlo." 

He  said,  "Horse  up  here  hi  five  minutes." 

It  was  there. 

He  was  out  of  town  in  a  minute  more. 

Denver  Bill  stopped  at  a  cabin  where  he  had 
made  ponmets  *  to  rob  a  train  at  7 145,  and  it 

*  Appointment. 

[66] 


JOHNS     THINGS 


was  now  6:10.  His  friend  was  there.  They 
jumped  on  their  horses  and  rode  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  The  train  whistled  around  the  curve. 

There  was  a  shout.  Denver  called:  "Stop 
that  engine !" 

It  stopped  slow.  .  .  .  Bill  murdered  the  engi 
neer,  and  then  flew  thru  the  train  of  cars.  He 
grabbed  the  fifty  pound  gold  box  and  jumped 
thru  the  window.  A  shot  rang  out. 

Bill  was  pincked. 

The  man  that  he  had  come  with  played  dirt  on 
him  because  he  went  off  with  the  gold.  Bill 
crawled  across  the  field  and  laid  in  the  hay  stack. 

He  rolled  the  first  cigarette  of  the  day. 


LETTER  TO  THE  ABBOT  (from  California) 

DEAR  OLD  WIFE  : 

How  are  you  coming*?  I  was  just  up  over  the 
hill  behind  us,  getting  two  wounderful  qwortz  of 
golden  honey.  How  is  your  type  mill  pumping 
these  days'?  I  got  a  new  story  in  my  bean: — 
Have  an  old  fisherman  that  takes  those  forks  and 
goes  after  crabs — have  him  find  a  pot  of  pearls 
instead  of  crabs. — Think  if  it  is  done  right  it 
would  make  a  wounder. 

When  will  you  be  out  here*?  We  will  lead  a 
pack  trane  over  the  mountains!  Oh,  that  is  the 

[67] 


THE      HIVE 

old  open  road !  Pack  mules,  they  mean  it  to  me 
— a  line  of  mules  in  the  mountains  and  a  couple 
of  saddel  horses !  That's  the  life. 

I  hope  you  have  changed  your  mind  about  them 
airaplanes.  I  do  not  like  the  Idea.  But,  old 
man,  it  is  for  the  best,  and  nothing  is  a  mistake. 
Take  it  as  it  comes.  Write  soon,  and  make  the 
pages  fly  like  dust  to  me.  I  need  all  that  I  can 
get. 

Last  night  was  our  first  bit  of  rain.  Slept  in 
an  open  window  where  my  face  was  sprayed  all 
night  with  the  wounderful  cold  drops  of  spring. 
When  I  got  up,  I  was  feeling  better  than  I  ever 
did  before.  I  was  all  relaxed.  I  lay  a  long  time 
just  in  the  wounder  of  the  wounderful  free  air  and 
rain.  I  got  up  and  went  down  and  washed  in 
more  of  the  soft  rain,  and  ate  and  went  outside  to 
come  down  to  my  work  shop.  I  stood  in  the 
wind.  Everything  around  me  was  so  wounder 
ful.  All  the  trees  and  flowers  were  brighter. 
The  hills  were  a  little  damp.  The  birds  were 
playing  and  drinking  in  the  rain.  The  ray  of  sun 
was  just  coming  over  the  hill.  I  could  almost 
hear  the  breathing  of  the  grass  and  erth.  It  was 
like  a  song,  the  great  song  of  spring  and  breath 
ing  of  the  world. 

That  is  the  way  that  the  new  generation  will 
come  in  after  the  world  is  washed  and  all  coun 
tries  are  one.  A  Boy,  young  and  clean,  will  come 

[68] 


JOHNS      THINGS 


in,  whistling  and  breathing  a  Song  of  the  New 
Race. 

YOUR  COMRAD. 


ANOTHER 

WELL,  WIFE: 

Here  I  am  pumping  a  little  more  of  my  vocab 
ulary  at  you.  I  think  that  I  will  go  into  the 
ocean  and  have  a  swim.  It's  dulce  on  my  wounds. 
What  I  want  to  tell  you  is  about  an  old  sea  loafer 
here — a  big,  black  dog.  He  isn't  any  kind  of  a 
dog — nothing  but  a  world-man-dog,  he  is.  He  is 
a  lover  of  the  sea  and  sand.  He  goes  down  with 
us  every  day.  He  is  a  pal  for  the  road.  He 
can't  follow  the  saddel  like  Jack,  but  he  can  shore 
be  a  frend.  I  have  lerned  him  and  he  has  lerned 
me.  We  stick  close. 

Well,  pal  of  the  sea  and  saddel,  I  am  getting 
awful  lonesome,  but  I  am  with  you  all  the  time. 
I  need  your  old  paw.  I  shore  keep  high  for  the 
Spring  Coming.  We  will  have  a  shack  back  in 
the  hills  all  alone,  and  drink  tea  and  talk.  Don't 
it  sound  good?  I  won't  forget  it  either,  not  until 
we  have  it.  We  have  planned  it  for  many  ages, 
and  we  will  hafto  have  it — old  pal  of  the  moon 
light  rides. 

I  am  close  and  always  your  Comrad. 

[69] 


6 
VALUES  OF  LETTER  WRITING 


STONESTUDY    particularly    is    a    shop 
for   writers.     A  man   is   at  his  best  in 
writing  to  the  one  who  pulls  the  most 
from  him.     The  thing  is  to  pour  out. 
The  pursuit  of  happiness  is  a  learning  how  to  ra 
diate.     Happiness  itself  is   radiation — incandes 
cence. 

You  say  you  write  to  the  world.  A  compos 
ite?  An  abstraction"?  These  will  not  draw  forth 
your  best  and  greatest.  .  .  .  You  pass  a  thousand 
faces  in  the  town,  and  are  suddenly  torn  by  one"? 
Do  you  think  that  the  unmanifested,  upon  which 
the  thousand  faces  sleep  so  far  as  you  are  con 
cerned,  is  capable  of  bringing  out  your  wisest  or 
tenderest  expression,  as  is  this  one  face  pressed 
against  the  very  window  of  your  habitation? 

As  a  workman,  as  an  artist,  as  a  player,  one 

must  give  his  best,  one  by  one,  to  individuals  first, 

before  he  arouses  the  force  to  set  the  table  for  the 

world.  ...  It  is  important  for  the  young  writer 

[70] 


VALUES     OF      LETTER     WRITING 

to  answer  exactly  certain  listening  attitudes.  I 
think,  in  a  story  mood,  of  the  shepherd  fires — the 
endless  droning  tales  of  Persia  and  Palestine — 
camel  bells,  bearded  men  in  white  hoods, 
occasional  weary  movements  of  women  in 
the  tent  openings  as  the  evening  passes  to 
dead  of  night.  The  tale-teller  is  making  his 
listeners  see  more  or  less  dimly  something 
he  sees — something  he  has  heard  and  visualised, 
better  yet,  something  he  has  lived.  The  finer  his 
telling  the  more  completely  he  has  lived  it.  The 
more  listeners  pull  from  him,  the  more  excellent 
his  animation,  his  art.  A  speaker,  accustomed  to 
give  himself  spontaneously  to  an  audience,  said: 
"If  I  don't  give  you  what  you  want — if  I  am  not 
at  my  best  to-day — remember  it's  apt  not  to  be  all 
my  fault." 

Soil  and  seed  in  all  things. 

We  prepare  ourselves  with  much  misery  and 
massed  experience  to  tell  our  story  of  life.  How 
strange  that  we  should  not  have  reckoned  with 
the  fact  that  all  this  preparation  is  only  half. 
.  .  .  Really,  it  is  as  important  to  think  to  whom 
one  is  writing  as  what  to  write  about.  I've  been 
afield  with  many  young  men,  soldiers  and  the  like. 
Their  best  and  highest  moments  afield  were  spent 
in  writing  home,  or  possibly  to  the  girl  they  left 
under  the  beeches  or  sycamores.  We  should 
write  a  myriad  or  two  love  letters,  before  we  are 


THE      HIVE 

ready  to  write  for  the  world.  .  .  .  By  writing 
and  dreaming  and  travelling  and  living  toward 
the  one,  we  learn  how  to  focalise  our  forces.  Hav 
ing  done  that,  we  are  ready  to  diffuse,  to  radiate. 
Sooner  or  later  the  one  point  will  be  taken  away. 

Don't  be  distressed;  it  is  only  for  the  time. 
But  the  love  we  have  learned  with  one  must  be 
turned  upon  the  many.  It's  all  a  love  story. 
The  whole  universe  is  that.  The  stillness  of  the 
sun  in  relation  to  the  planets  tells  the  first  story 
of  radiation — love  a  cosmic  force,  not  a  senti 
ment — all  one  big,  brave  tale.  .  .  .  The  real 
priest  is  trained  to  draw  out,  to  furnish  under 
standing, — inclusion.  One  can  talk  well  to  one 
who  includes  him.  As  professional  essayists  and 
story-tellers,  we  are  only  beginning  to  learn  that 
we  must  talk  or  write  to  some  one  greater  than 
ourselves,  to  set  ourselves  free. 

The  wonderful  power  of  letters  begins  and  ends 
just  here.  .  .  .  Write  your  story  or  your  essay  to 
one  who  contains  you — to  one  who  draws  your 
best,  to  one  who  sets  you  free.  ,  You  can  ascertain 
your  relation  to  another  by  your  mood  as  you 
prepare  to  write.  The  more  you  practise  the  art, 
the  more  sensitive  you  are,  the  more  you  realise 
that  no  two  moods  of  yours  are  the  same,  as  you 
write  to  different  people.  One  draws  humour, 
one  irony,  one  a  tendency  to  exaggerate,  another 
deeply  to  be  serious  and  reformative.  This  should 

[72] 


VALUES   OF   LETTER   WRITING 

reveal  the  whole  secret.  Choose  your  complement 
for  the  portrayal  of  a  mood. 

The  thing  we  call  our  style  is  merely  the  evi 
dence  of  that  which  we  have  chosen  to  work  to 
ward,  plus  our  particular  personality.  We  should 
work  to  that  which  sets  us  free.  Certainly  one 
cannot  be  free  in  another's  form.  There  are 
fixed  vehicles  for  expression — novel,  essay,  poem, 
infinite  departments  of  each,  but  the  fact  remains 
that  no  workman  or  artist  or  player  can  be  ut 
terly  himself,  who  remains  in  the  forms  laid  down 
by  those  who  went  before,  or  in  forms  prescribed 
by  the  generation  he  undertakes  to  express  himself 
through. 

No  good  workman  ever  accepts  things  as  they 
are.  To  be  the  workman  unashamed,  he  must  be 
considerably  beyond  his  generation  in  culture  and 
acumen.  He  therefore  finds  the  beaten  paths — 
which  are  the  easy  paths  for  the  many — the  most 
irksome  paths  for  himself.  He  grinds  long  and 
hideously  against  the  things  that  are,  and  thus  be 
comes  formidable,  since  grinding  makes  the  edge. 
The  dullest  part  of  the  axe  is  held  the  longest 
against  the  wheel. 

Bit  by  bit,  as  the  consciousness  of  the  chosen 
workman  expands  under  years  and  ordeals,  he 
casts  off  all  the  shackles,  forms  and  prescribed 
nonsense  of  the  trivial  and  material-minded.  He 
breathes  deeper  with  each  unbinding,  until  he 

[73] 


THE      HIVE 

reaches  the  fair  eminence  upon  which  lies  the 
priceless  secret  of  all  expression: 

That  there  is  no  law  for  the  pure  in  heart. 

He  reaches  this  point  through  many  slaveries, 
and  yet  a  child  can  be  taught  the  secret.  The 
child  must  also  be  taught,  at  the  same  time  how 
ever,  that  the  world  is  wrong  and  inferior  in  all 
its  views;  otherwise  the  child  will  not  have 
stamina  enough  to  stand  against  the  opinions  of 
all  elders  of  all  times,  much  less  those  who  sit  at 
the  same  breakfast  table.  Verily,  the  thing  that 
Rodin  and  Balzac  and  Carpenter  and  Hugo  and 
Chavannes  and  Nietzsche  and  Whitman  gave 
their  prodigious  vitalities  to  learn,  before  their 
real  work  began, — can  be  taught  to  the  child,  but 
the  child  must  find  his  faith  in  his  own  spirit  and 
some  true  teacher  to  set  him  free. 

In  the  later  aspirations  beyond  professional 
workmanship  for  the  world,  the  Players  achieve 
that  master  freedom  which  detaches  itself  entirely 
from  causes  and  effects  in  materials.  They  work 
as  do  those  who  are  ambitious,  yet  refuse  to  tie 
themselves  in  the  least  way  to  results.  They  work 
to  their  Masters,  to  the  Unseen.  .  .  .  All  of 
which  is  pure  and  perfect  liberation,  but  requires 
one  trained  in  building  with  spiritual  causes  and 
effects.  We  seek  to  furnish  this  training  for  a 
few  who  are  ready.  It  is  the  way  to  the  inmost 
and  the  uppermost  in  all  art  and  mysticism.  We 
are  set  free  here  as  expressionists  of  various  kinds 

[74] 


VALUES      OF      LETTER     WRITING 

by  writing  or  painting  or  playing  to  those  we 
hold  dearer  than  ourselves.  We  wouldn't  be 
writing  if  we  could  be  with  them  in  the  flesh — 
how  clear  that  is!  The  fundamental  processes 
of  our  picture-making  are  quickened  by  our  yearn 
ing.  Here  we  touch  an  old  and  curious  law,  that 
you  must  have  separation  for  the  true  romance. 

We  learn  to  mass  life  into  pictures  or  tones  or 
tales.  .  .  .  All  that  we  do  well  shortens  the 
grade  for  those  who  receive.  If  they  are  quite 
ready,  they  won't  have  to  make  the  mistakes  we 
did — mistakes  painful  at  the  time,  but  out  of 
which  we  make  humour  now. 

A  man  brings  a  gift  when  he  brings  forth  a  good 
tale.  He  has  done  something  with  the  worn-out 
tools  of  incident  and  experience  which  hasn't  been 
done  before.  To  do  it  well  his  telling  is  dependent 
upon  his  audience.  His  telling  will  be  different 
for  each  listening  group.  The  greater  the  artist, 
the  less  alike  will  be  his  methods  of  approaching 
different  friends  or  comrades.  Each  will  bring 
from  him  a  different  tone,  a  different  look  to  his 
eyes,  a  different  grip  of  hand,  and  different  order 
of  unfolding  his  genius.  .  .  . 

The  most  perfect  bits  of  writing  we  have  from 
the  group  of  our  greatest  novelists — is  either  in 
the  form  of  letters  or  parts  of  work  inspired  by 
the  influence  of  a  woman's  heart — some  romantic 
and  one-pointed  outbreathing  of  their  souls  to 
one.  .  .  .  The  great  creative  producers  rarely 
[751 


THE      HIVE 

found  steady  human  companionship  in  one 
woman.  No  flesh  was  starry  enough  to  endure 
their  idealisation;  the  break  of  their  picture  was 
often  the  shattering  of  life  itself.  Experience 
forces  us  all  at  last  to  take  our  idolatry  from  that 
which  changes — to  continue  our  lessons  of  love 
toward  the  Unseen.  Lovers  of  the  New  Race 
seem  to  have  learned  the  agony  of  trying  to  find 
all  in  each  other,  of  trying  to  find  the  universe 
eye  to  eye.  They  realise  at  once  that  man  and 
woman  are  but  the  two  earth  points  of  a  tri 
angle  ;  that  they  safely  may  rear  their  passions  and 
their  transfigurations  only  to  the  pure  point  of 
union  above.  .  .  . 

A  man  has  found  something  when  he  cries 
"Eureka!"  He  loves  something,  when  he  pours 
out  his  heart  to  it.  The  first  great  struggle  of  the 
real  workman  is  to  find  a  form  that  contains  him 
— a  form  of  expression  that  will  not  maim  his 
dream.  It  is  never  the  form  that  has  held  an 
other,  that  has  sufficed  for  another  artist.  A  let 
ter  is  one  way  to  freedom.  A  writer's  style  should 
set  him  free. 

The  enduring  aphorisms  and  tablets  and  dis 
courses  of  the  Masters  have  been  spoken  to  their 
beloved  few.  A  man's  sealed  orders  in  the  world, 
his  Occult  transcriptions  from  above  the  world, 
come  in  the  form  of  personal  messages.  Great 
documents  of  the  future  shall  be  written  this  way. 


VALUES   OF   LETTER   WRITING 

We  write  many  personal  letters.  One  of  my  young 
comrades  has  the  idea  to  gather  together  names 
of  a  score  of  mill-girls  in  New  York  or  some 
where,  and  write  her  heart  to  them — less  to  try 
to  help  them,  than  to  ease  her  own  heart,  to  tell 
her  love  for  them.  Radiation — that  is  happiness. 
Mill-girls  have  been  a  dream  of  hers.  She  is  full 
of  force  to  pour  out. 

Incandescence  is  happiness.  All  expression  is 
happiness.  Happiness  is  creative.  To  work,  to 
express,  that  is  to  radiate.  The  object  is  as  im 
portant  as  the  thing  that  aches  to  go  forth. 
Choose  the  form  that  sets  you  free.  To  each  his 
form. 

A  tireless  woman  asked  how  she  might  serve. 
Her  lover  was  lost  in  Flanders.  We  told  her  to 
write  to  the  soldiers — to  write  her  heart  out  in 
letters  to  soldiers — that  she  would  save  lives  and 
start  great  dreams  and  bring  the  gold  back  to 
many  grey  mists — to  be  Mary  the  Mother,  the 
saint,  the  dream  of  the  film-eyed  fighting  men — 
to  love  them  through  the  heart  of  her  beloved. 
That  is  what  focalisation  leads  to — to  draw  forth 
the  great  energies  from  our  souls,  to  set  us  free, 
first  to  one,  then  to  the  world. 

We  learn  to  love  the  one — in  order  to  give  this 
love  to  the  world.  We  learn  to  love  in  matter 
for  the  moment,  in  order  to  become  consummate 
artists  and  players  in  the  soul  stuff  that  cannot 
die.  Again  and  again,  through  possessions  and 

[77] 


THE      HIVE 


personalities — missing,  destroyed  or  moved  away 
— we  learn  to  take  the  force  of  our  outpouring 
from  the  mutative  to  the  changeless — making  a 
divine  bestowal  at  last  of  a  clinging  human  need 
— lifting  from  the  idolatry  of  the  flesh,  which  en 
closes  all  pain,  to  the  love  of  souls  which  sets  us 
free. 


7 
THE    NEW    DANCING 


I  HAVE  found  true  North  Americans.     A 
woman  of  twenty-seven,  a  mother  (with  a 
mysterious   man   somewhere)    and   a  girl- 
child  with  the  calm  and  power  of  Joan 
come  again.  ...  I  needed  a  change,  was  tired  of 
my  house  and  my  voice — close  to  the  end  of  all 
human  interest  that  morning  as  I  set  out  for  a 
walk  up  the  edge  of  the  Lake,    On  and  on  walk 
ing,  until  I  came  to  the  little  girl  on  the  shore. 
She  was  making  a  frowning  man  in  clay.     She 
asked  me  if  I  were  the  Crusader,  but  answered 
herself  while  I  was  hoping  to  fit  the  dimension  of 
that  fascinating  title.     She  had  decided  that  I 
wasn't. 

North  Americans — I  think  of  them  so  again 
and  again — something  great  and  calm  and  deep 
and  beautiful,  something  arrived,  at  last,  from 
all  the  fusion — en  rapport  with  nature,  children 
of  the  light,  living  and  abiding  constantly  in  the 
essences  of  sunlight — with  the  humour  and  cer- 
[791 


THE      HIVE 


tainty  of  Mother  Earth  about  their  ways — the 
cleanliness  of  earth  and  the  sweetness  of  golden 
light  in  their  house  and  mind.  .  .  . 

Mind  you,  I  had  walked  forth  as  one  would 
wade  out  to  sea  in  the  path  of  the  moon — actu 
ally  yearning  for  a  better  land  than  this.  .  .  . 
There  on  the  shore,  after  hours,  was  the  child — 
her  eyes  turned  to  mine,  putting  me  into  the 
enchantment  of  the  wise — stilling  hate  and  ennui. 
We  had  words  together,  the  great  awe  of  life 
stealing  over  me  again  after  many  days.  Her 
hand  stretched  forth  to  take  me  to  her  mother 
(this  day  called  the  Lonely  Queen,  for  they  live 
in  an  enchanted  story-book).  A  climb  to  the 
top  of  the  bluff  and  into  the  most  fragrant  and 
godly  lane,  a  low  house  in  the  distance  in  the 
shelter  of  beeches — solitary  and  isolate  beeches 
sheltering  a  human  house,  built  for  sunshine  long 
ago.  Many  pages  would  not  tell  of  the  lane  and 
the  house,  the  lawn  and  the  hives.  ...  I  want 
to  touch  the  core  of  this  inimitable  pair  that  took 
me  in — poor  but  dining  upon  the  perfect  foods, 
so  poor  that  they  make  and  dye  the  lovely  things 
they  wear — a  kind  of  holy  handiwork  everywhere 
— perfume  of  summer  in  the  house  and  in  the 
heart  of  it  a  deepdelved  peace  where  broods  a 
sort  of  lustrous  dream. 

The  child  is  but  seven — that  is,  her  body  and 
brain  are  but  seven.  Her  talk  with  her  mother 
is  the  talk  of  a  pair  of  immortals.  .  .  .  Wheat 

[80] 


THE      NEW     DANCING 

bread  and  butter  for  supper,  peaches  of  the  moth 
er's  canning — a  last  jar,  she  said,  with  comb- 
honey  for  sweetening  and  golden  cream  on  top. 
It  was  a  repast  for  the  mountain-top  where  demi 
gods  stray — all  miracles  about  us,  Apollo  just 
putting  his  steeds  away,  Vulcan  smoking  sombre 
and  wrathful  in  the  distance. 

Can  you  see  me  sitting  down  to  supper  in  a 
true  handmade  house,  at  the  head  of  a  God-made 
portal  to  the  lake  (the  lane  is  nothing  less)  in 
a  grove  of  white  beeches — lingering  gold  on  the 
vines  at  the  window,  the  murmur  of  hives  in  the 
air,  and  these  two  mystic  presences  subduing  their 
radiance  to  sit  with  me*?  ...  There's  a  little  can 
of  tea  that  is  opened  the  last  thing  after  the  table 
is  spread;  the  brass  kettle  begins  to  sing,  and  the 
mother  hovers  over — a  kind  of  sacred  rite,  all 
this — then  the  dancing  water  is  poured  over  the 
leaves  and  the  room  softly  fills  with  the  air  of  far 
archipelagoes.  Roses  of  Ireland  and  France  are 
in  the  room.  Tearoses — some  daughter  of  poetry 
must  have  named  them. 

.  .  .  Still  I  am  telling  you  about  things — not 
about  them.  I  thought  I  should  write  you  what 
they  are,  yet  the  longer  I  sit  here,  the  more  testa 
ments  of  their  adorable  lives  appear,  but  their 
spirits  draw  farther  apart.  .  .  .  There  is  never 
a  drone  of  talk  where  they  are  .  .  .  sentences  and 
silences,  the  myriad  voices  of  evening  stealing  into 
the  hushes  between.  ...  I  must  get  down  to 
[81] 


THE      HIVE 

earth  again.  I  must  begin  with  the  grass  and  the 
shore  and  the  magic  which  began  when  the  child 
turned  up  to  me  from  the  frowning  clay.  .  .  . 

I  should  like  to  report  them  moment  by  moment 
— to  make  you  see,  but  there  is  a  fixed  purpose 
in  this  chapter.  Sitting  apart  from  them  that  first 
night,  I  contemplated  the  North  America  of  the 
future — a  kind  of  dream  that  nestles  within  a 
dream — the  Great  Companions,  superb  men  and 
women,  the  vastness  of  leisure,  the  structural 
verity  of  joy,  a  new  dimension  in  the  human 
mind,  a  new  colour  and  redolence  in  the  light  that 
plays  upon  the  teeming  world.  Not  for  years 
had  I  been  so  near  to  the  dithyrambic.  ...  I 
went  out  into  the  dusk  and  smoked  a  machine- 
made  cigarette — not  for  worlds  would  I  dese 
crate  that  room.  I  returned  drowsy — opened  the 
casement  windows  wide  to  the  stars.  As  I  put 
out  the  lights,  the  sense  came  to  me  that  the 
little  room  was  as  fragrant  and  sweet  as  a  new- 
woven  basket. 

...  I  awoke  to  low  singing.  The  room  was 
grey  and  seemed  to  lift  with  me,  and  the  walls 
to  widen.  It  was  as  if  I  had  caught  the  old 
house  just  waking  from  a  sleep  of  its  own.  The 
phenomenon  of  the  singing  lived  in  my  mind. 
I  don't  know  the  song — a  rapid  bird-like  improv 
isation  possibly — two  voices  hushed,  but  a  vibra 
tion  of  clear  liquid  joy.  I  went  to  the  window. 
The  earth  was  still  asleep — a  pearl-grey  world 

[82] 


THE      NEW     DANCING 


of  dripping  trees  in  a  kind  of  listening  ecstasy — 
two  beings  below  on  the  lawn — a  lawn  that  was 
grey  with  dew.  It  was  like  looking  down  upon 
a  cloud  from  the  Matterhorn.  These  two  beings- — 
one  in  a  veil  of  rose,  one  in  a  veil  of  gold — were 
dancing  upon  the  cloud,  dancing  bare-armed  and 
limbed,  their  voices  interpreting  some  soft  har 
mony  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  break  of 
day  upon  the  sphere. 

It  was  not  for  me — yet  I  could  not  draw  back 
from  the  vines.  I  brought  only  thankfulness  to 
it — sharing  the  joy  in  the  dim  of  a  room,  in  the 
dim  of  a  mere  man's  heart.  Yet  all  I  could  con 
tain  came  to  me  from  the  mother  and  child. 
They  knelt  in  the  grass,  the  song  more  hushed, 
bringing  up  to  their  faces  and  shoulders  hands 
that  dripped  with  the  holy  distillations  of  the 
night — a  wash  in  dew  and  day,  their  song  a  prayer, 
their  dance  a  sacred  rite.  ...  I  should  have 
thought  it  the  gift  of  dreams,  but  there  was  a 
starry  track  of  deep  green  across  the  lawn,  where 
their  bare  feet  had  broken  the  sheen  of  dew. 

...  I  dwelt  with  souls — that  was  the  truth. 
I  sat  at  breakfast  with  souls,  dew-washed,  speak 
ing  to  each  other  and  to  me  from  that  long  road 
of  life  which  we  lose  for  a  squalid  by-way  when 
we  put  on  the  garments  of  the  world.  .  .  .  They 
talked  again  about  what  the  birds  hear  in  the 
morning.  They  said  that  what  the  birds  sing 
is  their  interpretation  of  the  great  song  of  day- 
[83] 


THE      HIVE 

break — that  the  earth  does  not  meet  her  Lord  Sun 
in  silence.  .  .  .  And  then  I  knew  that  the  song 
I  heard  was  their  interpretation — think  of  it — 
a  child  of  seven  eating  buttered  toast. 

And  I  knew  that  power  is  a  song — that  the 
singing  of  the  kettle  is  the  song  of  steam,  that  the 
inimitable  fsing  of  an  electric  burner  when  the 
current  first  charges  through,  is  the  awakening 
song  of  steel  and  carbon  to  their  native  capacity 
and  direction.  The  same  is  in  the  heart  of  a  boy 
when  he  finds  his  task — the  same  is  in  the  order 
of  a  master  and  in  the  making  of  his  poem.  .  .  . 
These  two  hear  it — the  song  of  Mother  Earth 
as  the  floods  of  light  pour  out  and  over  her  from 
the  East. 

Here  was  a  mother  who  knew  how  to  play. 
She  had  launched  somehow  into  a  sphere  of  her 
own  making — doubtless  having  found  life  of  the 
world  insupportable.  I  had  thought  much  about 
bringing  up  children,  about  unfolding  the  child, 
and  here  it  was  being  worked  out  with  brimming 
joy.  ...  It  was  all  too  natural  to  be  called  edu 
cation.  It  was  nature — it  was  liberation,  rather 
— a  new  and  higher  meaning  of  naturalness. 

I  was  almost  afraid  to  speak.  The  life  here 
seemed  so  delicate  and  delightful  that  comments 
would  bruise  the  fine  form  of  it.  ...  They 
played  together — that  was  the  point.  Play  is  a 
liberation  of  force — great  play  is  ecstasy.  In 
it  one  rises  to  the  stillness  of  production,  wherein 

[84] 


THE      NEW      DANCING 


one  bathes  in  mystery  and  potency  and  all  com 
monness  is  cleansed  away.  Those  who  reach  this 
stillness  are  the  great  beings  of  the  world. 

When  we  finally  open  ourselves  to  any  subject, 
we  find  intimations  of  it  everywhere.  I  found 
presently  that  all  the  voices  of  the  New  Age  had 
designated  the  magic  of  the  dance.  It  seems  al 
most  dull  to  declare  that  I  do  not  refer  now  to 
the  dance  as  it  is  taught  and  used  and  exploited 
as  a  social  accomplishment,  but  that  in  which 
the  personality  is  subdued  and  quiescent,  quite  as 
absolutely  as  it  is  in  all  great  moments  of  produc 
tion.  One  must  give  oneself.  Music  carries  the 
sensitive  soul  into  its  own  mystic  region.  A 
rhythm  within  answers  to  the  external  rhythm — 
the  two  meet  and  mate — the  fusion  is  bewildering 
beauty. 

As  in  all  creativeness,  the  first  law  is  spontane 
ity. 

The  great  dancers  of  the  future  will  hear  their 
own  music — possibly  give  voice  to  it  as  they  give 
their  body  to  the  rhythm.  There  shall  be  no  exact 
interpretation  of  song  or  sonata — at  least,  not 
until  absolute  genius  interprets  the  exact  figure 
of  each  tone-set.  This  is  impossible  in  a  world  of 
mutation.  Accordingly,  one  who  establishes  a 
series  of  movements  to  accompany  a  certain  har 
mony,  misses  the  meaning  of  the  divine  improv 
isations  which  is  the  essential  beauty  of  the  New 
[85] 


THE      HIVE 

Age  dances.  One  should  dance  as  freely  as  one 
called  upon  to  speak.  And  one  will  neither  speak 
nor  dance  greatly  by  prearrangement  or  following 
any  arbitrary  form. 

The  very  tone  of  the  voice  is  different  and 
deeper  when  one  is  caught  in  the  spirit  of  spon 
taneity.  The  prime  object  of  the  new  education, 
which  includes  dancing,  is  to  set  the  soul  free. 
Music  is  one  of  the  master-lures  to  call  forth  the 
sleeping  giant. 

One  night  a  stranger*  came  to  Stonestudy.  She 
said  she  was  called  by  the  way  we  were  doing 
things,  and  that  she  hoped  she  had  something  to 
bring  to  us.  ...  The  next  morning  at  daybreak, 
down  on  the  shore,  I  saw  stars  and  circles  of  young 
women  and  girls  folding  and  bending  together 
in  exquisite  tones  of  colour  and  song.  Her  gift 
was  the  new  dancing.  Over  night  she  had  cap 
tured  the  young  people,  bringing  them  a  new  joy 
in  the  world.  For  two  or  three  months  she  remained 
with  us  and  has  since  established  classes  east  and 
west — life  given  to  the  message  of  beauty.  With 
us  her  expression  and  magic  has  endured. 

There  is  no  way  more  swift  to  merge  in  the 
universal,  than  by  the  response  to  music  through 
movement.  Not  dancing,  which  is  a  response 
to  time  in  music  more  than  to  rhythm,  but  the 
actual  blotting  out  of  self,  a  spiritual  exaltation 

*  Helen  Cramp. 

[86] 


THE      NEW     DANCING 


which  many  religionists  have  sought  and  few  at 
tained. 

The  means  is  very  simple;  nothing  strange  or 
peculiar.  It  is  the  dropping  of  the  human  will 
so  that  the  music  may  flow  through.  One  does 
not  move  to  the  music  then;  one  is  moved  by  it. 
The  objective  mind  ceases  to  operate  and  through 
the  larger  consciousness  absolute  Beauty  streams. 
The  response  to  the  music  may  be  totally  different 
with  several  pupils,  but  where  the  dancer  is  really 
lost  to  the  objective  world,  the  movement  is  al 
ways  true  and  satisfying  to  those  who  watch. 
This  is  easy  for  those  who  are  close  to  Nature  and 
God,  but  it  is  fraught  with  difficulties  for  those 
who  are  over-mental  or  who  have  been  terribly 
repressed.  In  many  ways  the  will  is  man's  high 
est  asset  and  it  requires  a  supreme  effort  of  the 
will  itself  to  drop  the  objective  consciousness. 

There  is  a  technique  of  the  dance  to  be  sure, 
but  it  is  designed  only  to  free  the  body  so  that 
it  may  be  a  purer  channel  for  the  music,  and  to 
facilitate  the  effacement  of  self.  Physical  strength, 
agility,  beauty  as  mere  beauty,  are  never  sought, 
but  only  the  revelation  of  eternal  harmony. 

There  is  rhythm  throughout  Nature.  Man  often 
moves  less  gracefully  than  the  higher  mammals. 
He  has  opposed  his  will  to  the  law  of  the  universe, 
for  centuries  abusing  his  ancient  right,  but  through 
music  he  may  realise  again  the  harmony  of  all. 
The  dancer  is  radiant  with  the  splendour  of  the 

[87] 


THE      HIVE 

infinite  and  there  comes  an  ecstasy  into  the  spirit, 
of  those  who  witness  the  transfiguration — the  hush 
that  one  feels  only  before  the  highest  art  and 
purest  religion. 

It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  those  who  dance 
must  bring  back  with  them  into  every-day  living 
something  of  the  beauty  of  those  exalted  moments 
when  they  touch  "the  white  radiance  of  eternity." 
Here  is  natural  education,  natural  religion — a 
practical  mysticism,  the  merging  of  self  in  the  In 
finite  with  a  consequent  fitness  for  daily  living. 

So  the  dancing  of  the  New  Age  is  but  a  differ 
ent  form  of  contemplation  and  production,  by 
which  the  Soul  becomes  the  creature — for  the 
period  achieving  that  blessedness  which  is  above 
time  and  space,  and  dwelling  in  that  dimension, 
where  goodness,  beauty  and  truth  are  one. 

The  new  dancing  is  "in  the  air."  Like  vers 
libre  and  all  New  Age  realisations  and  creations, 
its  first  essential  is  freedom.  This  is  the  meaning 
of  the  word  Democracy — equality,  liberation.  The 
very  spirit  of  all  that  is  new  demands  freedom. 
The  deeper  one  penetrates,  the  lovelier  the  folds 
of  this  marvellous  conception.  There  is  no  title 
for  friend  or  comrade,  for  child  or  iover — com 
parable  to  the  assumption  of  equality. 

Equality — its  power  sings.  It  dances.  When 
the  last  is  said  and  done,  we  all  want  the  same 
thing,  if  we  really  knew, — goodness,  beauty  and 

[88] 


THE      NEW     DANCING 


truth,  one  at  the  top.  There  is  joy  in  the  fine 
new  conception  appearing  now  in  all  the  arts — 
freedom  first  and  last,  even  to  lawlessness  at  first, 
but  that  will  right  itself  more  swiftly  than  smug 
ness,  which  has  had  its  age-long  and  hideous 
trial.  .  .  .  To  me,  the  house  in  the  beeches  slowly 
unfolds  it  all — the  mystery  of  the  cosmic  peas 
antry  of  the  future — that  fastidious  poverty,  that 
delicate  plenty  which  is  perfection.  These  two, 
mother  and  child,  mean  the  new  dancing  to  me, 
and  the  New  Race  beside.  I  have  not  dared  to  go 
again,  because  I  build  incorrigible  dreams,  and  this 
one  especially  is  dear.  .  .  .  Yet  I  often  recall 
their  loveliness  together. 

The  mother's  beauty  had  turned  to  loveliness. 
It  had  more  than  the  mystic  chiselling  of  sorrow — 
it  had  passion,  it  had  humour.  ...  I  feel  the 
need  of  telling  you  from  time  to  time  that  I  am  not 
rhapsodising,  the  need  of  reminding  you,  how 
weathered  and  drab  my  mind  was,  when  I  went 
up  the  shore  that  day.  She  made  me  think  of 
grapes  and  olives  and  laurel-boughs;  she  seemed 
the  sister  to  the  child.  All  about  the  two  were 
subtle,  pervasive,  ever-changing  tests  of  the  power 
of  the  soul.  The  country  people  around  did  not 
think  her  extraordinary,  much  less  beautiful. 
How  much  is  revealed  in  that"?  Loveliness  re 
quires  certain  vision,  an  interpretative  spirit,  and 
thus  it  is  protected  from  the  vulgar  gaze.  These 
good  country  people  carry  upon  their  faces  and 
[89] 


THE      HIVE 

hands  and  persons  picture-writing  of  secret  sins 
and  dreamless  stolidity,  and  yet  they  are  scandal 
ised  by  this  woman.  You  cannot  imagine  how 
sweetly  it  came  to  me  that  she  had  utterly  lost 
the  sense  that  she  was  outcast. 

A  lamp  burns  at  her  door  every  evening.  I 
don't  suppose  it  is  seen  three  times  a  month — yet 
the  lamp  burns.  .  .  .  There's  a  big  wooden  Cross 
in  the  room  where  they  sleep — the  child  led  me  to 
it — a  mat  of  grass  before  it,  kusa  grass,  who 
knows*?  ...  A  great  Cross,  a  much- worshipped 
Cross,  with  spike-holes,  the  broken  edges  worn 
smooth.  .  .  .  The  child  whispered  to  me  that 
she  had  been  brought  (when  she  was  too  small 
to  know)  and  placed  on  the  mat  at  the  foot  of 
the  Cross  for  her  mother  to  find;  also  that  she 
came  when  the  white  clover  bloomed. 

...  It  is  only  this  way,  bit  by  bit,  that  I 
can  make  the  picture.  I  have  never  before  been 
so  disturbed  by  the  sense  of  inadequacy.  The 
light  about  their  heads  is  all  diffused  like  morning 
upon  a  cloud. 


[90] 


8 
OLD    PICTURES    IN    RED 


1 


was  a  period  between  the  second 
and  third  year  of  the  war,  when  it 
seemed  that  the  guiding,  shielding  spir 
its  of  the  planet  were  slowly  being 
withdrawn — leaving  only  the  mockery  of  goods, 
the  chaos  of  multiplied  things.  But  at  the  black 
est,  in  the  very  hush  of  desolation,  the  new  breath 
stole  in  upon  us,  a  breath  of  lilacs  on  the  chill, 
dank,  wintry  air.  Many  now  stand  arisen,  wait 
ing  the  flash  that  changes  the  world.  .  .  .  Five 
men  were  gathered  in  Stonestudy  one  evening; 
we  talked  of  our  parts,  the  best  we  could  do  in 
the  cleanup.  It  was  hard  to  look  over  the  bar 
riers  at  first;  hard  for  an  American  to  accept 
the  fact  that  he  dare  not  say  what  he  thought,  nor 
write  what  he  thought-  It  was  hard  to  realise 
that  we  were  prevented  from  expressing  what 
we  thought,  by  the  very  forces  that  had  drawn 
us  into  this  deep  trouble.  We  who  are  the  dis 
tant  generation  of  a  party  of  pilgrims  and  voy- 


THE      HIVE 


agers  who  came  to  America  to  find  a  free  country, 
were  strange  and  intolerant  at  first,  when  we  felt 
the  yoke  of  Europe  settle  upon  ancient  scar-tissue. 

We  discussed. 

A  country  is  superb  when  one  is  unconscious 
of  it,  we  said.  One's  country  should  be  like  one's 
health,  part  of  the  song  of  life.  Suddenly  to  find 
the  freedom  of  the  past  unremembered,  the  free 
dom  of  the  future  unglimpsed,  to  hear  the  loathly 
low  beat  of  talk  from  groups  of  frock-coated  Ap 
petites,  with  heavy  half-dead  legs  and  heads  like 
pitching-quoits,  settling  our  sacred  future  on  the 
basis  of  steel  and  coal  and  margin  and  murder 
market;  to  feel  ourselves  clutched  and  borne  for 
ward  with  stub-nailed  fingers  in  the  stench  of 
big  business;  black-garbed  shopmen  pointing  the 
way  to  the  ports,  urging  and  shouldering  other 
people's  children  to  the  ports  of  the  gunboats, 
advising  the  efficacy  of  "Nearer  My  God  to  Thee," 
as  a  song  for  sinking  ships, — we  forgot  at  first  in 
our  own  pain  that  this  was  merely  the  body  of 
the  Old  strained  to  a  cracking  point  by  the  resist 
less  growth  of  the  New. 

Presently  we  grew  kinder.  ...  In  a  way,  the 
Old  was  the  grim  stepmother  in  whose  house  we 
learned  how  not  to  do  most  things;  in  whose 
kitchen  we  learned  cleanliness,  because  of  the 
vile  example  of  her  organic  sloth;  in  whose 
walled  garden  we  learned  the  peril  and  the  pas 
sion  of  Quest,  because  we  loathed  her  long  snor- 

[92] 


OLD      PICTURES     IN      RED 

ing  of  afternoons;  from  the  death  of  whose  sects 
and  schism-shops  we  set  forth  to  find  the  unity  of 
life;  from  the  obscenity  of  whose  loves  we  came 
into  the  .first  great  cleansing  hatred  of  our 
selves.  .  .  . 

No  hatred  now.  Hatred  is  part  of  the  Old. 
It  has  no  part  to  unsteady  the  hands  of  the  recon- 
structionists.  This  New  Race  has  come  up  in 
strong  soil.  The  Old  nourished  and  fertilised  all 
its  vitalities.  The  new  green  beneath  the  litter 
of  dead  leaves  cries  out  under  the  decay,  "You 
are  stifling  me!"  but  the  plan  of  it  all  is  wiser, 
for  there  is  warmth  still  in  the  humus  of  the  old 
to  protect  the  new  and  the  frosts  may  not  be 
finished. 

More  and  more  as  the  sense  of  big  cleansing 
and  chastening  came  home  to  us,  the  everlasting 
principles  of  reason  and  order  and  beauty  also 
appeared  out  of  the  chaos  and  the  pain.  .  .  . 
They  were  saying  in  Europe  that  this  war  was  a 
war  without  morale.  We  believed  it  would  be  a 
war  with  morale  before  the  destruction  was  fin 
ished.  One  of  the  cleanest  dreams  we  had  was 
that  America  would  bring,  with  its  guns  and  knives 
and  instruments  of  flagellation,  something  of  the 
almighty  spirit  of  the  human  heart  to  light  the 
blackness  where  the  Pale  Horse  has  passed. 
That's  all  morale  is,  and  war  without  morale 
hasn't  any  cause  or  effect  on  the  constructive  side, 

[93] 


THE      HIVE 

and  will  continue  to  destroy  itself  against  itself  as 
all  such  forces  do  in  their  madness. 

If  any  one  concludes  that  we  were  a  group  of 
religionists  gathered  in  Stonestudy  that  night 
it  will  be  well  to  point  out  that  this  planet  will 
be  a  whole  lot  more  religious  before  war  ends, 
and  no  one  will  be  louder  about  it  than  the  trade- 
mind  everywhere. 

War  brings  death,  and  death  enforces  the  faith 
of  the  human  heart,  and  faith  is  one  of  a  trinity 
(as  we  learned  in  Sabbath  School  and  variously 
since)  that  inclines  the  heart  of  man  to  God.  You 
take  a  loved  object  from  the  Seen  and  place  it  in 
the  Unseen  (thousands  each  day  the  soldiers  pass) 
and  faith  is  born  of  the  agony  of  separation.  The 
human  heart  forces  a  bridge  across  the  abyss  from 
the  Seen  to  the  Unseen.  It's  the  old  story  of  the 
bereaved  turning  to  God.  Saints  are  thus  made — 
thus  tenderness  and  purity  come  to  be. 

Within  the  next  ten  years  there  will  be  hero 
isms  before  our  eyes — heroisms  such  as  seers  and 
saints  and  sages  have  dreamed  of  as  the  consum 
mation  of  the  human  heart.  And  those  who  have 
lost  most  and  mourned  most  will  read  the  eternal 
joy  of  the  Plan  from  the  Book  of  God's  Remem 
brance. 

When  you  see  the  remnant  of  a  race  of  people 
crying  out  that  there  is  no  God — then  you  begin 
to  know  what  war  means.  When  a  country  has 

[941 


OLD     PICTURES     IN      RED 

given  its  tithe  of  human  blood,  or  one  in  five  is 
gone — then  you  begin  to  know  what  an  Austrian 
woman  meant,  when  she  spoke  of  the  "horrible 
grinding  of  war  and  the  answer  of  the  women  to 
man's  cries  of  pain  afield."  .  .  .  When  peace 
brings  a  worship  of  materials  and  a  dulness  that 
cannot  look  beyond  existing  institutions — the  end 
is  war,  and  after  that  a  sitting  in  black  upon  the 
ground. 

We  didn't  know  what  death  meant  before  this 
war — but  many  have  learned.  The  very  word 
death  has  the  sweetest  sound  of  all  uttered  names 
to  many  a  lonely  heart  to-day.  We  didn't  know 
enough  about  death.  We  had  the  habit  of  think 
ing  this  was  all.  The  end  of  such  thinking  is 
war,  and  after  that,  a  sitting  in  black  upon  the 
ground. 

When  your  heart  is  cleft  in  twain  and  one  part 
stays  on  this  side,  and  the  other  over  the  dim 
borderland — there's  a  straining  of  eyes  into  the 
Unseen,  a  picture  making  out  of  the  creative 
materials  of  human  spirit.  Life  of  the  soul  begins 
again — out  of  pain — always  out  of  pain. 

We  have  not  yet  learned  to  accept  life  from  the 
higher  masters,  Joy  and  Beauty.  We  still  learn 
through  Pain.  We  forget  the  meaning  of  death, 
even  as  we  gather  our  things  of  death  about  us, 
and  war  comes  along  to  remind  us  again.  Always 
those  who  answer  to  Master  Pain  must  look  to 
death  to  find  their  relation  to  God.  The  faith  that 

[95] 


THE      HIVE 

comes  with  peace  at  last  to  the  human  heart,  is 
energised  by  a  love  that  crosses  the  abyss  of  life 
and  death.  ...  A  grand  old  teacher,  Master 
Pain.  When  we  know  all  his  lessons,  and  take  his 
hand  from  oir  shoulder,  and  touch  it  to  our  lips 
(for  we  shall  know  well  his  wonderful  work  when 
the  time  comes  for  us  to  part  with  him),  then  we 
shall  find  that  he  is  not  a  black  man  at  all — but  a 
Sunburnt  God.  .  .  . 

Four  at  a  supper  table — a  little  child,  its  young 
mother,  and  the  old  father  and  mother  of  a  grown 
son,  who  has  just  died  for  France.  The  old  man's 
eyes  roved  from  the  child  to  its  mother,  back  to 
the  old  woman,  and  lingered  there,  something 
rough  and  deep  and  wise  in  his  look.  The  child 
suffered  vaguely.  There  was  much  suffering  in 
the  house.  .  .  .  The  young  mother  asked  coldly 
if  they  could  feel  him  in  the  room.  Then  just  as 
coldly  she  asked  if  there  were  a  God.  Then  she 
ran  from  the  room  with  a  cry  like  a  night  animal. 
The  silent  child  began  to  weep.  The  old4nan  and 
the  old  woman  stared  at  each  other  and  wondered 
what  their  daughter-in-law  meant  about  him  being 
in  the  room. 

A  picture  of  the  chastened  world. 

The  child  turned  from  the  strange,  sad  human 

beings  to  the  fairies  that  played  upon  the  peasant 

hearth.    The  child's  mother  had  rushed  forth  into 

the  twilight  to  find  a  vision  or  a  memory  or  a 

[96] 


OLD      PICTURES      IN      RED 

breath  of  God.  The  old  man  and  the  old  woman 
looked  so  long  at  each  other  in  the  darkness — 
that  the  soul  of  the  son  of  their  flesh  stood  for 
one  healing  instant  between  them.  Thus  the  en 
during  figures  of  the  Unseen  reveal  themselves  to 
those  who  have  suffered  to  the  end. 

The  nations  are  but  names  to  fight  for.  These 
battle-lines  are  for  humanity's  soul.  If  America 
is  fighting  for  humanity,  let  it  be  with  surgical 
calm  and  healing  in  her  hands.  Hate  spoils  every 
thing. 

The  babe  knows  a  room;  the  child  knows  a 
house  and  looks  out  into  a  street ;  the  youth  learns 
the  street  and  then  the  city ;  the  young  man  learns 
his  country,  but  the  man  should  learn  the  world. 
You  can  never  be  the  great  lover  of  America  by 
hating  the  rest  of  the  world;  no  human  mind  can 
see  what  is  best,  what  is  even  good  for  America, 
when  the  interests  of  other  countries  are  forgotten. 
No  man's  country  ever  suffered  because  he  turned 
his  love  and  service  to  the  feet  of  humanity. 

The  few  who  brought  the  real  American  impar 
tiality  to  the  European  war  in  the  first  months, 
found  themselves-  in  the  midst  of  the  most  chal 
lenging  chaos  that  ever  reared  its  head  to  the  light. 
Profound  and  tragic  impressions  followed  each 
other.  It  became  icy  clear  that  the  greater  na 
tions,  as  well  as  the  pawns  of  the  Balkans  and  the 
[97] 


THE      HIVE 

Levant,  were  puppets  alike,  churned  together  in  a 
great  planetary  cleansing.  Every  partisan  path 
was  found  to  be  increasingly  crooked  the  farther 
one  advanced — and  a  sheer  descent  at  the  last. 
Any  national  point  of  view  used  to  dupe  the  peo 
ple  into  greater  destructive  energy,  proved  in  itself, 
no  matter  how  sincerely  offered,  as  short-sighted 
and  ill-founded  as  the  hatred  of  two  soldiers  who 
meet  between  trenches  and  discover,  as  they  gore 
each  other  to  death,  that  their  only  basis  for  hos 
tility  is  a  different  colour  of  coat. 

Studying  Europe  in  those  dark  days,  the  un 
prejudiced  eye  was  in  danger  of  having  some 
truths  torn  down  with  the  host  of  illusions.  It 
was  hard  to  hold  fast  to  the  fact  that  there  was 
anything  magic  or  holy  about  nations  at  war. 
Indeed,  they  seemed  entities  formed  of  groups 
of  greedy  men  who  wanted  their  way — in  the 
main,  groups  of  leaders  devoid  of  vision  and  the 
spirit  of. fraternity,  and  careless  of  the  welfare 
of  the  people,  quite  the  same  as  many  great  com 
mercial  organisations.  .  .  .  The  real  enemies  of 
any  people  are  groups  of  men  who  want  things 
for  themselves.  The  real  issue  of  the  war  has  noth 
ing  to  do  with  entities  of  this  kind,  nor  with  alli 
ances  of  such  entities,  but  with  the  painful  groping 
consciousness  of  the  peasant  mind — its  slow  and 
torturous  awakening  to  the  fact  that  royalty  in  its 
utmost  pomp  and  glow  does  not  enfold  God. 

The  people  must  learn  before  they  can  be  free. 
[98] 


OLD      PICTURES     IN- RED 

Hitherto  they  have  been  duped  by  the  nations; 
and  the  nations  are  now  being  duped  by  each 
other;  but  there  is  a  greater  plan  at  work — using 
men  and  nations  alike, — a  plan  to  do  away  with 
boundaries  and  hatred  and  preying,  to  strike  the 
spear  from  the  hand  of  man  and  leave  it  free  to 
help  his  neighbour,  to  establish  democracy  in  the 
place  of  imperialism,  and  fraternity  upon  the  solid 
footings  of  the  earth  in  the  place  of  separateness 
and  strife.  .  .  .  The  new  volume  of  human  spirit 
already  has  been  opened.  We  felt  it  that  night  in 
Stonestudy  before  lights  out, — the  first  beauty  as 
of  a  song  across  still  waters. 

An  American  correspondent  going  home  from 
the  field  in  Europe  "the  long  way  around,"  met 
an  old  Persian  Master  on  the  road  to  Damascus. 
With  the  sage  was  his  nearest  disciple,  also  a  Per 
sian  ;  in  fact,  the  young  man  was  so  loved  that  he 
had  been  changed  from  discipleship  into  sonship. 
This  young  Persian  became  very  devoted  to  the 
American.  They  stood  together  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  when  the  time  for  parting  came.  The  old 
Master  drew  near  and  said : 

"It  is  good  to  see  you  place  your  hands  together. 
To  me  it  is  a  symbol  of  the  marriage  of  the 
East  and  West,  for  the  East  and  West  must  mate. 
Long  ago  the  East  went  up  to  God  and  the  West 
went  down  to  men.  The  East  has  learned  Vision 
and  the  West  has  learned  Action.  These  two 
! 


THE      HIVE 

must  meet  and  mate  again  for  the  glory  of  God 
and  the  splendour  of  earth.  The  East  has  lifted 
its  soul  to  the  hills  and  held  fast  to  its  memory 
of  the  Father's  house.  The  West  has  descended 
into  the  folds  of  the  valley,  and  won  from  agony 
and  isolation  its  efficacy  in  material  things.  And 
now  the  mystic  i:  looking  down  and  the  material 
ist  is  looking  up.  Soon  their  hands  shall  join — 
like  your  two  hands  in  mine — and  there  shall  be 
great  joy  in  the  Father's  House." 


[100] 


9 
STEVE 


STEVE  and  I  were  camping  together  for 
a  few  weeks  on  the  Southern  California 
strand.  One  morning  he  looked  up  from 
the  pages  of  a  book  in  his  hands  and 
remarked : 

"This  fellow  is  one  of  us." 

The  book  was  Youth,  by  Joseph  Conrad. 

"I  haven't  read  a  book  for  a  long  time,"  Steve 
added.  "There  are  three  stories  in  this.  I've 
read  only  one — Heart  of  Darkness — in  fact,  I 
haven't  finished  that.  .  .  .  You  have  to  fall  into 
this  Conrad  and  be  his — to  get  him.  You  let 
your  mind  open  into  a  cup,  and  presently  after 
six  or  seven  pages,  you  find  it  brimming.  If  you 
fall  into  him  deep  enough,  you  get  almost  what 
he  sees — not  quite  though.  No  reader  ever  does. 
But  you  get  something  intense,  fascinating,  a 
restlessness,  a  terror.  You  find  that  all  your  som 
nolence  and  inertia  has  caught  fire." 

There  had  been  a  ten  minutes'  rain  at  dawn. 
The  smell  of  the  tropics  moved  over  the  sterile 

[101] 


THE      HIVE 

sand.  It  was  cool,  but  there  was  no  wind.  The 
day  promised  heat.  We  had  been  up  in  Canada 
for  the  winter,  and  it  was  hard  to  believe  that 
hot  sunlight  was  free.  A  broad  quilt  of  gulls 
and  plover  sat  together  on  the  shore  waiting  for 
the  drying  light  or  forQthe  mist  to  rise,  or  the 
tide  to  ebb.  ...  ^, 

Steve  resumed: 

"He  tells  about  a  boy  who  loved  maps — who 
used  to  look  for  hours  at  the  continents — thrill- 
ingly  attracted  to  the  darkest  places;  tS?r)atches 

••  •  fj>-*J  t  t  j  f  .  ,     A  •  ^          A 

still  unprojected. ;  There  was  One /heart  of  dark 
ness  with  . a  river  winding  .through:  He  doesn't 
tell  you  the  continent  or  the  Jriver,  l)ut  there  were 
elephants  there.  JJe  should  have  called  'the  story 
Ivory., .  ..,, Years  afterwaf(l,  the  man,  worn  to 
the  bone  from  the  world's  lies;  sets  out  to  pene 
trate  this  deepest  black  of  the  planet.  He  reaches 
the  river  and  follows  it  for  endless  days,  but  the 
world  has  arrived.  Some  nation  is  there  colonis 
ing  for  Ivory — you  don't  know  which.  The  story 
is  told  like  that — unplaced  in  time  and  space. 
Really  it  doesn't  matter  what  particular  imperi 
alistic  tendency  is  at  work.  The  fact  is,  he  climbed 
the  river  into  the  ghastliest  chaos.  .n.:a.  ° 

"You  get  the  deep  green  of  the  heart  of  the 
continent,  the  mournful  brooding  leanness— the 
natives  herded  and  distracted,  more  afraid  of  the 
blast  of  a  river-steamer's  whistle  than  of  any 
kind  of  violent  death.  Death  was  familiar  to 
C  102  ] 


them.  They  were  chained  to  labour,  cast  loose 
to  die.  Vultures  swept  the  sky  waiting  for  their 
limbs  to  fall  still.  There  was  the  salty  pester  of 
fever  in  the  air — men  foolish  with  fever  and  heat 
~-t— a  haze  of  flies — white  men  burning  out  inside 
•^Oxidisation  of  human  souls — a  steady  and  hid 
eous  beat  of  death — devils  of  hate  and  violence 
and  acquisitiveness — clerks  making  entries  of 
Ivory — a  nation's  young  men  running  through  the 
jungles  for  Ivory — carloads  of  bright  glass  beads 
and  painted  calico  for  Ivory — all  standards  of  life 
and  career-building  set  upon  Ivory— murder  /or 
that — lives  lost,  tribes  shattered — the  leafy  tj!<!art 
of  a  fresh  continent  seared  with  the  civil  flame 
of  /greed— commodities  dumped  in  river  beds^- 
iriails  that  men  would  die  for  torn  open  by  vandal 
hands- — waste,  perversity,  nothing  clean-cut  even 
of  crime,  the  horrible  non-initiative  of  the  mid 
dlemen.  .  .  .All  this  toTd  with  patient  exacti 
tude,  but  with  indescribable  intensity;  told  by  a 
master-hand  that  trembles;  with  the  control  that 
one  can"  "only  know  who  is  sensitive  enough  to 
tremble.  You  feel  a  big  man  bending  forward  to 
make  you  see  something  that  all  but  killed  him  to 
find  out.  You  feel  him  scarred  and  sick,  his  heart 
leaking,  because  he  found  it  all  so  hideously  and 
stupidly  rotten.  It's  a  little  picture  of  a  trade  war 
- — that's  the  point — the  war  of  middlemen — mid 
dlemen  turning  to  rend  each  other.  .  .  .  Heart  of 
darkness — after  that  the  light  comes." 


THE      HIVE 

Steve  opened  and  shut  his  fingers  in  the  sun 
light.  The  warmth  was  sweeter  every  minute. 

"This  fellow  sees  it  all,"  he  went  on.  "He's 
done  a  big  job  for  me — for  anybody  who  gives 
himself  to  the  book.  There's  something  immor 
tal  about  being  a  workman  like  that — about  any 
workman.  That's  why  one  wants  to  cast  a  weep 
after  the  passing  hordes  of  middlemen.  They 
can't  do  work.  They  don't  even  see  the  fog  of 
human  agony  they've  painted  the  world  with. 
They  are  it.  It  is  the  old  against  the  old.  It's  all 
about  Ivory.  They  crucify  for  fossil." 

Steve  was  lighting  up. 

"This  Conrad  brought  back  to  me  to-day  a  big 
ger  love  for  the  workman.  The  starved  and 
scorned  inventor  gets  the  best  of  it,  after  all — 
not  in  Ivory — but  he  builds  something  in  him 
self.  He  quickens  something  in  himself  that 
goes  on  in  freed  consciousness  when  the  body 
falls.  No,  I  don't  insist  that  anything  goes  on 
in  any  particular  way,  but  the  deep  moments  of 
work  somehow  show  a  man  that  the  best  of  him 
here  is  but  a  nexus  between  a  savage  past  and  a 
splendid  future.  .  .  .  It's  wonderful  to  be  alive 
to-day.  I  believe  there  are  secret  agencies  at  work 
behind  all  the  governments — that  they  are  one 
at  the  top.  I  don't  mean  detectives,  not  intelli 
gence  or  espionage  bureaus.  Potent,  mystic,  infal 
lible  forces.  It  doesn't  matter.  Some  person  or 
some  group  is  holding  the  plan  of  the  New  Age. 


STEVE 

"We're  learning  life  as  never  before — plucking 
the  deeper  fruits  and  mysteries  of  pain.  But 
one  must  go  apart  from  the  crowd  to  see.  One 
must  cease  to  be  a  partisan.  The  real  seer  sees 
the  whole,  not  the  part.  All  the  war-lands  are  in 
pain.  One  sees  only  the  part,  when  one  is  in 
pain.  Not  one  man  out  of  a  million  sees  it  all. 
A  few  Russians  see  it  all — a  few  in  China — a  few 
in  India.  Remain  Rolland  sees  it  all.  This  fel 
low,  Conrad,  sees  it  all.  .  .  .  It's  a  pity  if  Amer 
ica  doesn't  soon  get  the  full  picture.  It's  worth 
seeing " 

Ocean  and  sunlight  and  mountains.  The  world 
was  a  brimming  cup.  If  a  man  could  take  all  the 
beauty  there  was  for  him,  he  could  never  die.  .  .  . 
We  went  over  to  the  post-office  of  the  little  town. 
The  business  men  of  the  place  were  coming  in. 
The  first  mail  had  just  been  distributed.  .  .  . 
Grocers,  butchers,  the  hardware  man,  the  real  es 
tate  men,  the  man  who  ran  the  newspaper,  fisher 
men,  barbers,  lawyers — mainly  fat  and  pleasant 
— children  on  the  way  to  school. 

They  were  short-breathed  and  short-armed. 
They  dressed  in  wool  and  wore  heavy  dark  hats. 
I  had  never  noticed  before  how  short-armed  the 
race  of  tradespeople  are.  Labourers  and  peasants 
are  not  so;  painters  and  musicians  have  a  tend 
ency  to  be  long-armed.  I  mentioned  this  to 
Steve. 

"The  middlemen,"  said  he.     "They  are  tight- 


__...  T  H  E      H  I  V  E 

ened  throughout — ligaments  contracted — contrac 
tion  taking  place  in  the  deeper  weaves  of  mind, 
a  drying  up  of  the  deeper  sources  of  life.  Con 
traction,  self-centering — that's  what  madness  is. 
A  man  must  sing,  or  weave,  or  build  or  make 
bricks.  The  ways  of  competitive  life  are  paltry 
ways.  They  hide  their  ways  from  one  another, 
and  afterward  from  themselves.  They  pluck 
no  fruits;  they  contrive  no  short  cuts;  they  do 
not  become  intimate  even  with  the  commodities  of 
the  earth — the  very  things  they  worship  and  pare 
margins  from.  They  eat  infamously,  filch  from 
each  other.  .  .  .  It's  all  here — all  that  Conrad 
pictured  in  the  heart  of  darkness.  These  are  the 
sick,  the  maimed,  the  blind  of  the  earth.  They 
live  in  the  realm  of  fear,  pain,  anger,  desire. 
These  are  the  war-makers. . '.  .  .,"  Their  arms  are 

twisting  and  shortening  in  to  their  navels -T" 

Sunlight  streamed  in  through  the  open  doors 
of  the  post-office.  Motors  going  by  drowned  the 
soft  rustling  from  the  sea.  The  hell  of  the  outer 
world  trickled  in  through  bits  of  conversation. 
Everybody  had  read  the  morning  paper  at  the 
same  time.  No  one  thought  of  telling  anything 
that  his  neighbour  did  not  know.  .  .  .  Europe 
was  starving — the  President  was  ill — railroads  in 
strike,  coal  famine,  prohibitive  cost  of  staples — 
France  cracking  with  the  dry-rot  of  exhaustion — 
England  ...  a  voice — Germany  choking  in  her 
own  blood. 

[106] 


STEVE 


The  tradespeople  of  the  little  town  by  the  sea 
gathered  in  their  bills  and  orders  and  advertise 
ments  and  hurried  back  to  their  shops.  Nothing 
astonished  any  more.  There  were  no  words  for 
the  world's  woe  —  no  ears  for  lamentations  —  no 
mind  but  to  buy  cheap  at  the  right  time  and  sell 
dear  all  the  time.  We  walked  back  to  the  shore. 

•  -  •'  •  ^  ft 


•*  r  ,  .ft     «»  rf-r>rf  f*4    tr  f  Ti    "ii"*n    P  f**  JV     f  "  '  ili    ^""'^  *"'  T?/    JllT'1}  *TT 

"I  once  saw  a  little  town  on  a  hill-side,"  Steve 
said.  "A  grand  boot-maker  was  there,  ana  1 
man  who  made  clocks  with  such  tools  as  he  had— 
big  noble  clocks  that  ran  unvaryingly  eight  full 
days.  Another  man  made  furniture  —  perfect 
woods  from  the  forest  drying  in  his  kilns  and 
sheds.  There  was  a  sweet  smell  about  his  shop. 
There  was  a  weaver  and  a  potter  there.  The  days 
were  long  and  singing,  full  of  labour  and  peace, 
No  one  multiplied  by  mechanical  means.  Every 
artisan  had  his  apprentices.  The  age  of  the  ap 
prentices  will  come  back  —  with  a  new  dimension 
added  -  " 

"Switzerland  or  dream*?"  said  I. 

Steve  smiled.  "They  are  starting  communities 
all  along  this  coast,"  he  said.  "Many  are  on  the 
quest  of  the  town  I  saw." 

We  sat  down  upon  the  sand  again.  The  sun 
was  higher.  White  clouds  brooded  in  heaven's 
own  daylight;  white  wings  moved  upon  the  sea. 
I  was  thinking  about  Steve  and  all  he  had  said. 
What  Conrad  pictured  in  the  dark  continent 
[107] 


THE      HIVE 


existed  here  in  one  of  the  cleanest  small  towns  of 
America — an  earlier  stage  of  the  same  malignant 
disease.  From  the  broad  and  beautiful  vantage 
points  of  democracy  and  fraternity — every  shop 
here  was  a  lair,  the  products,  exposed  and  secreted, 
a  spectacle  of  moral  decay  and  insensate  devour 
ing;  every  schoolhouse  a  place  of  dismal  enchant 
ment  where  competition  was  not  only  taught  but 
enforced.  Steve  knew  deeply  well  when  he  spoke, 
that  the  creative  artist,  the  producer  of  every  real 
and  true  and  beautiful  thing,  comes  into  the  power 
to  express  himself,  in  spite  of  such  education,  not 
because  of  them. 

One  can  laugh  at  all  mediocre  men  occu 
pying  seats  of  the  mighty  and  calling  their  dead 
gods  to  witness  that  they  are  right — but  one  who 
knows  that  the  intrinsic  gift  of  each  child  is  the 
one  thing  in  sunlight  to  be  promoted,  turns  away 
a  bit  dismally  from  the  spectacle  of  the  standard 
isation  of  the  child  mind — from  the  wholesale 
manufacture  of  middlemen  by  school  system. 

Steve  loves  America.  I  know  of  no  one  who 
loves  America  more.  He  doesn't  rise  and  cheer 
when  the  orchestra  plays  a  questionable  bit  of 
verse  and  tune  in  a  movie-hall  where  imagination 
is  being  put  to  death — but  he  believes  in  the  vision 
of  the  Founders  of  America.  He  believes  in  the 
spaciousness  and  splendour  of  the  American 
spirit;  that  the  dream  of  a  few  mystics  will  tri- 
[108] 


STEVE 

umph  at  the  last,  and  that  the  many  will  follow 
the  dream  of  the  few.  He  does  not  believe  that 
the  voice  of  the  middlemen  is  the  voice  of  God. 

It's  hard  to  credit,  but  this  young  man  does 
not  hate  one  country  to  love  another.  He  loves 
America  because  the  dream  of  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth  has  a  quicker  chance  for  breaking 
through  into  matter  here  than  elsewhere.  He  per 
ceives  the  tissues  of  the  senile  and  the  obscene 
breaking  down  in  America,  under  intense  civil  and 
martial  and  moral  processes.  He  believes  that 
this  breaking  down  is  essential  before  the  building 
begins.  He  believes  that  the  future  will  be  built 
upon  the  thoughts  of  men  who  are  great  enough 
to  stand  apart  from  the  dumas,  from  the  cabinets 
and  the  senates,  just  now.  As  Steve  sees  it,  all 
partisans  have  to  do  with  the  parts,  and  the  parts 
of  the  partisans  have  to  do  with  the  Old,  which  is 
destroying  itself — sense  against  substance,  limb 
against  limb,  organ  against  organ. 

The  young  men  of  the  New  Race  are  born  of 
a  mating  of  the  East  and  West.  They  are  nat 
urally  intolerant  of  partitions.  Steve  is  one  of 
these.  He  isn't  a  spirit  alone.  He  is  a  body  and 
brain.  He  has  stayed  awake  through  the  full 
night  and  day.  He  sees  the  planet  in  one  piece. 
He  has  crossed  all  the  rivers.  He  knows  the 
young  men  of  America.  He  is  one  of  them.  He 
loves  America  because  he  knows  the  rest  of  the 
world.  He  has  friends  among  the  Chinese  young 
[109] 


— THE      HIVE 

WC  1  iOl 

men — among  the  young  men  of  Russia  and  India. 
He  says  that  all  three  have  greater  obstacles  to 
overcome  in  getting  the  dream  through,  than  we 
of  America — that  everybody  will  be  singing  it 
after  the  wreckage  is  cleared  away. 

"America,  Russia,  India,  China — they  are 
lands,  not  pavements,"  Steve  declared. 

He  was  looking  across  and  to  the  south.  The 
sun  was  a  glory  about  us — all  the  background  a 
tentative,  swiftly  passing  thing,  all  but  forgotten 
now,  stilled  by  the  rustle  of  the  long,  low  white 
lines  of  the  sea. 

"The  New  Age  will  redeem  all  the  broad 
lands,"  he  said,  with  a  trace  of  a  smile — "lands 
for  meadows  and  fields  and  gardens — meadows 
for  milk,  fields  for  wheat,  gardens  for  honey — 
the  New  Race  is  particular  for  the  perfect  foods 
— foods  for  the  giant  and  the  child — broad  lands 
for  the  toilers — the  great  sea  coasts  for  the  dream- 
-ers.  .  .  .  It's  all  a  matter  of  taste,"  he  added. 


'--  </od  c  r'.  I     •••;••.,;} 

iir/t    3Jj    ff  ."'-I      .nlr.-i<l 

.-i-.caiq  ano  m  iw;..1.     ?;•?[*     »-.c  oli'.-.v-i 
-»fb  Ev/ord  oil     .a-isvh   3/b   L-n  bmoii  &dt  sll 
sH     .fiis/b  }o.:>no  si-sll     .fiaha/nA  "io  norn  gnyey 
srii  to  je-^T  sdj  e^ord  3ii  3?u£Docf  £Dii3mA  c^vof 
gr.jjo-/  3c«rniiiD  -3»ft  ti/iomn  ebnaii'i  and  all    .bhov/ 


" 
i'-:i  *     .>bL'b  2-ifhru  frartrfab 


10 

,ft9l23>i£(X|   TO 

H  E  J  I  R  A 

5onn:D  rr.f;r'i  r,  -:'  :or  srica  sdl  nO     .Lv/cvn  3d.?  nt- 

WE  found  we  were  a  bit  tied  in  the 
the    Middle    West,    caught    some 
what   whether  we  liked   it  or  not, 
in  the  meshes  of  possession.     Steve 
and  I  had  liked  it  much  out  on  the  Southern  Cali 
fornia  strand.  .  .  .  When  one  reads  in  the  earlier 
book,*  the  stress  that  we  put  on  building  that  big 
stone  house  on  Lake  Erie,  this  felicitous  hejira 
may  disconcert. 

The  fact  is,  we  wearied  of  possession.  We 
found  ourselves  yearning  for  that  beauty  which  is 
unconfined.  We  were  athirst  for  new-  things,  a 
different  break  of  seasons  and  taxes. "'J.°?3.  'The 
world  was  so  full  of  people  who  could  build  and 
buy  and  own  and  insure,  that  we  decided  we 
should  be  doing  the  things  that  the  others  coulci 
not.  We  were  glad  to  have  built  the  house  for 
the  other  fellow.  We  had  to  do  it.  We  learned 
how  to  run  it  well,  in  and  out — but  it  was  a 
*  Child  and  Country. 

[  11 1  1 

•   i 


THE      HIVE 

stone  house.  When  a  man  builds  a  stone  house 
with  walls  eighteen  inches  thick,  he  must  leave 
a  hole  to  get  out;  also  he  must  be  sure  that  he 
isn't  building  on  his  own  chest.  ...  In  true 
Hive  spirit,  we  renounced  at  the  highest  moment 
of  possession. 

The  crowd  cannot  be  seen  by  one  who  stands 
in  the  crowd.  On  the  same  basis  a  man  cannot 
see  the  relation  of  his  house  to  the  road  or 
garden  from  the  inside  of  the  house.  The  world 
must  be  regarded  from  outside  to  be  seen 
as  a  whole.  The  New  Race  is  determined  to 
see  it  so.  This  outside  is  none  other  than  the 
mystical  viewpoint  of  all  world  artists  and  build 
ers. 

One  does  not  know  what  friends  are,  until  one 
discovers  that  the  secret  of  friendship  is  not  in 
getting  but  in  giving.  No  one  knows  what  love 
is  until  he  reverses  all  the  laws  that  the  many 
follow  now.  I  do  not  mean  lawlessness.  I  mean 
the  higher  law  that  is  found  at  last  by  the  quester 
after  goodness,  beauty  and  truth.  We  have  to 
finish  with  the  world  as  it  is  before  we  set  out 
in  quest  of  a  better  country.  .  .  .  We  found  that 
we  had  to  become  active  servants  of  a  finer  ideal 
than  householding  at  its  highest.  We  determined 
to  do  more  than  to  dream  this  ideal ;  we  set  about 
to  make  a  better  country.  At  worst,  we  work  for 
our  children. 

It  came  to  us  many  times  before  we  moved 
[112] 


H  E  J  I  R  A 

that  we  were  forever  done  with  things  as  they 
are;  that  we  had  come  to  the  end  of  show  and 
property-measure  and  hoarding;  to  the  end  of 
the  love  of  self  which  destroys  the  vision  for 
friendship;  to  the  end  of  domesticity  which  holds 
one's  neighbour  as  prey  or  rival;  to  the  end  of 
civic  identification,  or  relation  with  any  federated 
commonwealth,  which  fancies  its  existence  threat 
ened  by  the  prosperity  of  other  political  bodies. 
No  heat  about  it. 

We  came  to  the  edge  of  the  Lake  in  van- 
loads;  we  went  away  with  bags.  ...  I  turned 
from  the  eastern  distance  on  the  bluff,  on  one 
of  the  last  days,  and  looked  at  the  vined  study 
and  the  big  stone  house,  the  elms  so  strong  and 
green  about  it.  I  remembered  the  early  picture 
of  all  this.  It  began  from  Stevenson's  Treasure 
of  Franchard,  many  years  ago, — how  old  Dr.  Du- 
prez  went  out  in  the  morning  and  tried  grapes 
and  plums  with  the  dew  on  them,  sniffing  the 
perfumes  of  his  own  yard,  dwelling  in  his  own 
orchards. 

I  remember  one  day  before  building  that  the 
man  came  to  us  about  the  young  trees.  He  had 
pictures  of  them  in  books — blooms  and  fruits  of 
such  colours  that  nature  would  never  be  guilty 
of — all  the  fruits  I  heard  of  as  a  boy — white 
grapes  that  never  grow  in  this  country,  purple 
ones  that  grow  whether  you  care  or  not.  .  .  . 

The  trees  were  coming  on  now,  many  with 
[113] 


THE      HIVE 

ripening  fruit.  The  grove  of  elms  was  a  matter  of 
collateral,  as  the  bank  would  say.  The  break 
water  had  caught  up  thousands  of  yards  of  sand. 
It  worked — the  old  struggle  of  wasting  banks  for 
gotten  until  a  greater  storm.  The  honeysuckles 
that  were  planned  to  climb  the  bars  of  the  study 
windows,  had  to  be  trimmed  now  for  any  light  at 
all.  The  wistaria  trailed  admirably  and  imposed 
upon  the  front  the  sense  of  years. 

.  .  .  We  had  planned  to  have  all  the  fruits; 
some  of  the  finest  were  now  in  flower.  We  came 
with  many  clothes,  underwear  and  outerwear,  wool 
and  dark  things.  We  left  with  a  few  light  ef 
fects  in  our  hands — to  find  a  place  where  white 
garments  might  be  worn  in  peace.  We  came  with 
a  great  idea  of  food — game  and  fishes,  meats, 
poultry,  many  cans  and  vegetables  and  desserts. 
We  went  away  with  a  taste  for  graham  bread  and 
butter — a  spread  of  honey,  a  glass  of  milk.  We 
came  with  a  fear  of  disease  for  the  children,  fear 
of  colds,  fear  of  losing  something,  or  having  some 
thing  taken  away,  doubtless  having  the  fear  of 
death  and  accident.  We  went  away  with  a  clear 
idea  of  what  death  is  and  the  advantage  of  it, 
children  and  adults  alike. 

Young  children  rode  the  horse  that  had  a  repu 
tation  for  being  wild-spirited  and  very  much  a 
man's  mount.  We  had  seen  the  deep  places  of 
the  Lake  fill  with  sunshine.  We  came  with  para- 
[114] 


H  E  J  I  R  A 

sols  and  awnings  and  protections  against  the  sun. 
Most  of  us  would  like  to  have  worn  nothing 
but  a  breech-clout  had  the  town  permitted;  and 
the  only  time  we  had  found  the  world  hard  to 
bear,  was  the  long  grey  Spring  days  of  rain. 

Sunlight — it  is  closer  to  God  and  happiness 
and  manhood  and  every  delight  than  words  can 
suggest.  The  more  you  know  of  it,  the  more  you 
need;  the  more  you  love  it,  the  more  its  myste 
rious  excellence  unfolds.  I  know  what  sunstroke 
is,  and  what  the  sickness  from  heat  is.  It's  a 
vile  state  of  the  body,  or  vile  clothing  that 
stifles  the  body.  When  one  is  well  and  has  learned 
to  come  back  to  the  Father  of  Lights — there  is  no 
fear  in  his  heart.  I  used  to  wear  a  helmet  and 
dark  glasses,  but  no  more — eyes  stronger  than 
ever.  I  look  for  the  sun  in  the  morning  and  stare 
up  from  the  sand  into  his  face  at  high  noon.  There 
is  nothing  the  matter  with  sunlight.  The  sadness 
and  the  sickness  is  with  those  who  bring  their 
quilts  and  cloaks  to  hide  it  from  their  flesh.  .  .  . 

It's  all  in  synthesis.  The  end  of  bulk  possession 
is  pain.  .  .  .  We  started  in  with  many  flowers. 
We  ended  with  roses.  It's  all  in  the  tea-rose. 
...  By  careful  selection  of  thoughts  over  a  little 
period,  we  can  come  into  the  joy  of  flowers  in 
other  people's  gardens.  There  are  brave  men  who 
allow  you  to  walk  in  their  orchards ;  and  there  are 
many  who  work  hard  to  raise  fruits  for  a  price. 
[115] 


THE      HIVE 


There  is  much  joy,  if  you  really  look  at  it,  in 
building  a  house  for  another  fellow. 

We  start  with  the  brute  materials — beginning 
with  the  clay  itself.  Our  cultivations  become 
more  intensive  through  the  years.  All  life  is  so. 
We  take  the  extract  of  a  thing  at  last — a  shelf 
of  books  where  formerly  we  wanted  a  roomful — 
somebody's  else  little  rented  bungalow,  where  for 
merly  we  wanted  an  estate.  We  realise,  at  last, 
that  there  is  an  essence  to  be  obtained  from  the 
extract,  an  oil  from  the  essence — a  spirit  at  last 
from  the  oil.  The  whole  story  is  in  that — syn 
thesis.  Slowly,  at  last,  we  begin  to  set  ourselves 
free.  We  descend  into  matter;  learn  its  lessons 
and  laws,  rise  like  a  plant  through  the  darkness  to 
the  light,  integrating  force  to  meet  and  cope  with 
the  new  and  lighter  element.  I  held  up  seven 
little  books  in  one  hand — weighing  no  more  than 
a  new  novel. 

"It's  all  in  these,"  I  said  to  the  Chapel.  "One 
could  put  these  in  his  bag  and  have  it  all." 

.  .  .  And  then  at  last,  I  went  down  alone  and 
empty-handed  to  the  shore,  meditated  on  God 
with  sun  and  sand  and  flowing  airs.  .  .  .  All 
matter  is  scaffolding  which  falls  away.  A  man 
thinks  he  builds  a  house  for  himself,  but  no  sooner 
has  he  put  on  the  last  tile  than  death  or  the  open 
road  calls.  He  chooses  his  climate  and  grows  out 
of  it.  He  thinks  he  must  possess,  that  he  must 
hoard  against  a  rainy  day,  and  he  gathers  the  stuff 
[116] 


H  E  J  I  R  A 

of  death  about  him.  If  he  cannot  rise,  death  cov 
ers  him  for  the  time.  Dr.  Duprez  didn't  speak  of 
the  care  of  his  orchard,  or  his  garden.  It  was  all 
story  to  me.  Dear  R.  L.  S.  He  didn't  dream  of 
the  work  of  the  hand  necessary  to  keep  up  an 
orchard,  and  have  a  connoisseur's  joy  for  a  few 
summer  days  of  the  year.  He  didn't  tell  of  the 
parasites,  the  sprinklings,  the  arsenates  and  pumps, 
nor  of  the  little  winged  migrators  that  sit  on  the 
hills,  waiting  for  the  potatoes  to  come  up.  The 
call  comes  to  possess  nothing.  It  had  better  be 
answered. 


11 
THE   SPECTATOR 


SOME  of   us  here   have  swiftly  reviewed 
certain  old  slaveries,  that  we  may  set 
free  the  children  of  to-day.  .  .  .  They 
do  not  have  to  make  the  same  mistakes 
we  did.     I,  at  thirty-nine,  say  to  those  ten  and 
twenty  and  thirty  years  younger : 

"Start  where  I  leave  off.  I  do  not  relieve  you 
of  pain  or  error  or  shortsightedness,  of  passion  or 
pleasure,  or  anything  that  arouses  or  wears  down 
body  and  soul.  Only  this  I  ask  you — don't  make 
the  same  mistakes  I  did.  Let  me  give  you  the  an 
swer  to  a  few  petty  and  pestiferous  lures.  I  can 
put  you  right  on  them.  Begin  now  to  learn  your 
lessons  by  doing  things  wrong  at  first,  a  holy 
way  to  get  somewhere,  but  be  a  pioneer  in  your 
evils;  be  daring  and  fastidious  and  full-powered 
and  discriminating  in  your  faults!  Above  all, 
be  impersonal  in  them  as  soon  as  possible.  Let 
the  winds  of  the  world  breeze  through.  It's  all 
a  Laugh." 

[118] 


THE      SPECTATOR 


Every  process  of  the  world  to-day  is  designed 
to  take  away  that  adorable  love  and  listening  of 
the  child  to  its  own  soul.  Streets,  schools,  trade, 
neighbours,  houses  in  rows,  priests,  pastors,  charla 
tans,  all  standardise.  A  thousand  teachers  in 
technic  for  one  in  the  spirit  of  things;  ten  thou 
sand  teachers  of  the  health  of  the  body  (and 
every  one  wrong)  for  one  who  shows  the  way 
to  the  single  and  sacred  fountain  of  youth;  in 
numerable  voices  lifted  in  fly-dronings  of  instruc 
tion,  how  to  fill  the  bin  and  the  brain,  the 
bank  and  the  bourse — how  to  have  and  to  hold 
and  to  die  holding,  and  to  bury  oneself  in  the 
midst  of — for  one  who  laughs  and  plays  and  dares 
to  watch  the  world  go  by.  ...  At  last  to  be  the 
Spectator ! 

I  tell  you  now  from  much  living  that  there  is 
nothing  here  in  the  world  that  is  worth  fighting 
for,  but  the  glad  tolerance  of  events,  sheer,  laugh 
ing  joy  in  the  Plan.  .  .  .  Every  time  you  adjust 
your  life  to  the  standard  of  the  world,  you  are 
doing  something  that  is  beneath  your  soul,  and 
you  will  suffer  for  it,  and  be  forced  to  retrace. 
Dress  for  the  world,  and  the  world  will  find  its 
flaws  in  you.  Work  for  the  world  according  to  its 
specification,  and  it  will  defile  you.  Enter  into 
any  of  the  competitions  of  the  world  and  your 
face  and  your  hands  and  task  will  be  constricted 
by  visible  and  invisible  impediments  and  barriers, 
less  than  the  real  of  you  in  every  detail.  Search 
[119] 


THE      HIVE 

for  health  according  to  the  laws  of  flesh  alone, 
and  it  will  elude  you  at  every  point,  showing  you 
all  vanities  and  pits  and  pains.  Search  for  beauty 
of  face  and  body,  and  it  will  be  the  first  thing 
taken.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  to  make 
the  human  divine — that  is  the  job  we  are  here 
for. 

To  cease  to  hold  is  the  beginning  of  invincible 
attraction;  want  nothing  and  the  treasures  of  the 
world  are  yours.  You  cannot  have  health  until 
you  are  ready  to  give  up  life  here.  Cease  to  cling, 
and  that  which  was  a  body  held  apart  from  you, 
is  suddenly  a  winged  creature  returning.  .  .  . 
There  is  nothing  here  but  the  love  story,  and  the 
power  of  that  must  be  spiritual.  The  madonna 
of  the  future  will  look  up,  not  down  at  the  head 
upon  her  breast.  Man  must  overcome  mammon; 
Woman  must  overcome  the  mammal.  The  lovers 
of  the  future  will  look  a  little  time  in  each  other's 
eyes  and  much  above  to  a  Third  who  will  come 
nearer  and  nearer  for  their  adoration.  .  .  .  The 
friends  of  the  future  will  sing  in  their  Partings; 
they  shall  know  the  spirit  and  the  breath  of  cam- 
araderie  which  knows  no  death. 

There  is  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  our  young 
associates  to  be  extravagant  in  their  speech.  Much 
that  they  see  is  beyond  their  capacity  decently 
to  express.  A  group  of  us  was  looking  down  from 
a  high  balustrade.  Flowery  vines  were  woven 
[120] 


THE      SPECTATOR 


intricately  against  the  face  of  the  stucco  below. 
We  became  conscious  of  an  incredible  whirring, 
so  low  that  it  was  difficult  to  hear,  and  yet  so  in 
tense  as  to  give  the  thought  of  a  distant  seismic 
disorder.  It  was  the  invisible  wings  of  a  hum 
ming-bird,  flashing  from  cup  to  cup  in  the  vines 
below.  The  child  standing  next  to  me  said: 

"The  sound  has  texture." 

It  expressed  something  very  real  to  me;  yet 
there  is  not  power  in  words  to  portray  the  exact 
feeling.  All  the  objects  of  nature  have  their 
spiritual  dimensions  also  for  those  who  dwell 
much  in  the  Unseen.  These  unusual  children  see 
the  material  object  merely  as  an  outpost  for  a 
challenging  mystery ;  while,  to  the  material  mind, 
the  outpost  is  all,  and  the  lavish  adjectives  and 
expressions  of  the  former  are  deplored  as  gush 
or  affectation.  As  a  matter  of  splendid  truth,  the 
most  marked  and  potent  of  all  adjectives  and 
expressions  are  pitifully  inadequate  to  express  the 
lustre  and  radiance  which  begins  at  the  point 
where  three  dimensions  end. 

The  Valley  Road  Girl  came  into  the  Study  one 
day,  saying  that  this  chapel  book  should  be  called 
The  Hive.  We  all  thought  it  a  wonderful  name 
to  work  toward,  yet  the  unfolding  of  possibilities 
has  been  steadily  interesting  since  that  day. 

The  inner  sanctuaries  of  occult  literature  com 
mend  the  students  to  look  to  the  bees.  The  pat 
tern  of  much  that  man  has  still  to  unfold  from 

[121] 


THE      HIVE 

his  own  soul,  for  his  personal  and  communal  up 
lift,  is  already  expressed  in  the  hive.  There  is 
a  period  of  larva,  and  a  period  of  wings  to  each 
cycle.  Such  matters  call  to  those  of  spiritual  dis 
cernment.  One  feels  on  the  verge  of  great  revela 
tions  for  humanity,  beyond  the  thing  called  death, 
as  he  studies  this  miniature  model  of  a  great  de 
mocracy. 

The  most  fascinating  love  episode  I  ever  read 
was  the  Nuptial  Flight  in  Maeterlinck's  Life  of 
the  Bee.  The  majesty  of  winging  to  the  sun,  the 
falling  back  of  the  weaker-winged  suitors,  the 
commanding  isolation  of  sun  and  sky,  fusion  un 
der  the  mighty  beat  of  the  wings  of  the  queen, 
the  broken  body  of  the  male,  the  mother's  return 
to  the  shadow  and  the  labour  of  the  generative 
wheel — magically,  it  all  opened  a  vista  to  the 
great  renunciations,  the  great  passions  and  aspira 
tions  ahead  for  the  human  soul,  great  fusions  of 
the  future,  marriages  truly  made  in  heaven,  the 
inevitable  trinity  of  all  matings — the  drama  of 
love  and  death. 

For  her  one  high  noon  flight  in  June,  the  queen 
toils  through  years.  She  brings  back  from  that 
superb  instant  the  swarming  cities  of  the  future. 
On  and  on,  she  unfolds  her  fecundity  in  the  dark, 
a  prodigious  and  Herculean  labour;  from  the  hu 
man  standpoint  a  task  of  intolerable  pain  and 
monotony.  The  queen's  labour  is  scarcely  more 
difficult  than  the  tasks  assigned  to  the  hosts  of 
[122] 


THE      SPECTATOR 


workers,  which  appear  to  be  denied  any  separate 
episode  of  emancipation.  Yet,  equally  with  the 
queen,  they  share  the  communal  spirit;  and  no 
one  who  has  stood  among  the  hives  at  the  end 
of  a  long  summer  day,  and  heard  the  song  of 
bounty  and  deep-hearted  content,  can  deny  the 
peace  that  dwells  among  the  myriad  of  skilled 
artisans,  each  with  his  perfectly  appointed  task. 

Bees  appear  to  remember  the  light,  while  work 
ing  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  wheel.  Men,  as  yet, 
are  detached,  lost  in  the  heresies  of  self  and  strife. 
Only  a  few  visionaries  have  peered  beyond  the 
petty  reach  of  the  optic  nerve,  to  perceive  that 
this,  which  we  make  so  much  of,  is  but  the  hell- 
portion;  that  this  appearance  of  ours  in  pounds 
is  a  mere  dressing  up  in  materials  of  earth  to 
endure  the  dark  and  low  vibration  of  the  wheel's 
most  downward  sweep.  These  few  visionaries, 
always  singing  the  joy  of  the  other  arcs  of  the 
cycle,  somehow  keep  the  dream  alive, — the  dream 
that  appears  already  to  be  the  essential  blessedness 
and  magic  of  life  in  the  hive. 

All  mysticism  seeks  to  teach  us  this  single  point 
which  the  bees  seem  to  have  learned  so  well — to 
transcend  time  and  space  in  labour;  to  put  off  the 
sense  of  separation  and  strife,  to  hearken  to  the 
soul's  own  song  of  equality  and  sufficing  days. 
We  must  be  pushed  to  the  last  reaches  of  pain  be 
fore  we  learn  this  secret.  We  have  to  penetrate 


THE      HIVE 

the  darkness  before  we  earn  this  flash  which  swings 
wide  the  portals  of  joy. 

Joy  is  the  most  potent  thing  in  the  universe. 
The  bee-queen  mother  weaves  race  after  race  of 
progeny  out  of  the  incredible  dynamics  of  an  in 
stant's  joy.  Each  cell  that  she  fills  with  life  is 
a  living  fragment  of  her  nuptial  feast.  Fusion  is 
ecstasy,  parturition  is  pain.  The  many  become 
one;  that  is  heaven.  The  one  becomes  many 
again;  that  is  earth  and  hell.  Integration  and 
diffusion — the  same  story  told  in  the  hives  and 
ant-hills,  in  the  strolling  winds  and  swinging  seas, 
in  the  hearts  and  marts  of  men,  in  matings  every 
where. 

The  original  idea  was  to  use  the  title,  The 
Hive,  in  relation  to  the  happy  intensity  of  Stone- 
study  days,  but  our  ideal  grew  to  adapt  to  the 
name,  because  of  its  revelations  in  regard  to  the 
new  social  order;  the  pure  and  instant  abnegation 
of  the  self  to  the  community;  the  active  accept 
ance  of  the  precept:  That  which  is  good  for  the 
one  is  good  for  the  many,  and  that  which  is  good 
for  the  many  is  good  for  the  one. 

We  cannot  lose  ouselves  long  in  our  own  misery 
when  we  realise  the  glory  of  yesterday,  and  the 
more  spacious  solar  adventure  of  to-morrow.  We 
cannot  continue  to  feel  our  own  isolation  when 
we  perceive  a  brother  in  the  eye  of  a  stranger, 
when  we  perceive  the  sons  of  God  in  the  eyes  of 
[124] 


THE      SPECTATOR 


passing  men.  At  length  appears  the  task  ahead — 
the  great  Fatherland,  the  Planetary  Hive. 

I  have  taken  the  hint  from  the  new  race  chil 
dren,  that  to  transcend  pain  we  must  make  joy 
of  it.  Given  the  hint,  one  realises  that  the  mas 
ters  of  all  ages  have  told  the  same  story — how  to 
make  light  of  human  shadow,  how  to  make  lus 
trous  our  own  darkness.  No  matter  what  science 
says  to  the  contrary,  the  quest  for  the  Absolute 
means  the  same  thing;  this  is  the  marriage  at 
Cana,  the  turning  of  water  into  wine ;  this  is  the 
passion  of  the  ancient  alchemists,  to  transmute 
base  metals  into  gold;  this  is  healing;  this  is 
regeneration. 

To  make  joy  out  of  pain  is  still  more:  it  is 
power  for  world's  work;  it  is  the  light  that  one 
carries  among  men;  it  is  the  fire  that  makes  man 
remembered  by  his  fellows,  that  makes  man  sig 
nificant  in  any  task.  It  is  loss  of  the  sense  of 
self;  the  death  of  the  lower  for  the  birth  of  the 
higher  life;  the  subjugation  of  three-score-and-ten 
for  immortality;  an  adios  to  the  hands  that  cling, 
for  the  stride  and  rhythm  of  the  Great  Compan 
ions  on  the  long  road.  It  is  not  for  the  saint  any 
more  than  for  the  soldier,  not  for  the  sage  any 
more  than  for  the  politician,  not  for  the  poet  any 
more  than  for  the  parent.  It  is  not  piety,  it  is 
power.  One  learns  it  best  from  the  children. 
One  becomes  as  a  little  child  in  learning  it  well. 


THE      HIVE 

We  are  learning  rapidly  these  days.  These  are 
the  days  of  humanity's  passion  and  pilgrimage. 
The  soul  of  humanity  is  passing  along  the  dusty 
roads  of  Palestine,  for  the  healing  of  its  own  weak 
nesses,  the  casting  out  of  its  own  demons.  One 
who  is  not  carrying  a  part  of  the  world  burdens 
now,  as  well  as  his  personal  pack,  seems  forgot 
ten  of  the  gods.  It  has  come  to  many  of  us  that 
we  dare  not  take  more  than  a  glimpse  of  our  own 
allotted  happiness — that  we  may  not  have  more 
than  a  touch  of  the  beloved's  hand  in  these  days  of 
parturition  everywhere. 

But  personally  and  nationally  we  shall  come 
to  that  significant  crossing  where  nothing  else 
can  be  taken  from  us,  where  death  seems  the  high 
est  boon,  and  Master  Pain  has  driven  home  his 
most  pointed  shaft. 

That  is  the  moment  of  laughter.  Driven  to 
the  last  ditch  we  turn  and  laugh.  That  is  the 
moment  of  our  expansion  for  a  new  kind  of  hero 
ism.  One  builds  from  that  deep  hour. 

The  ultimate  secret  is  not  to  identify  oneself 
with  that  which  changes.  When  these  objects 
shift  or  break  down,  or  some  one  takes  them  away, 
we  suffer  the  old  savage  rent.  The  day  comes  when 
we  disentangle  from  the  final  mesh  of  possession — 
cease  the  idolatry  of  things;  then,  and  only  then, 
are  we  rich — possessing  the  spirit  and  essence  of  all 
tilings,  tallying  the  universe  within  according  to 
[126] 


THE      SPECTATOR 


its  objective  arrangements  with  the  universe  with 
out. 

Finally,  to  master  the  world,  one  must  learn 
actually  to  enjoy  the  mutation  of  material  things, 
as  one  of  an  audience  watches  the  movements  on 
the  stage.  No  longer  torn  here  and  there  in  the 
small  fury  of  detached  affairs,  one  laughs  richly 
at  the  progress  of  the  Play.  Possessing  the  spirit 
of  all  things  within,  he  realises  that  nothing  he  has 
can  really  be  taken  away.  No  longer  identify 
ing  himself  with  material  objects,  he  is  at  last 
in  touch  with  the  perfect  and  changeless  arche 
types.  This  dispassion,  so  difficult  to  reach,  at 
last  extends  over  all  world-forms.  One  ceases  to 
love  bodies;  one  loves  souls.  The  son  at  the 
front,  the  daughter  taken  to  a  different  house, 
the  empty  seat  at  the  table,  crash  of  finance  or 
romance — all  but  a  passing  of  symbols — God 
speed  and  a  smile.  Bit  by  bit  the  valiant  reaches 
that  profound  and  almost  divine  indifference  to 
the  external,  having  bound  himself  to  the  real, 
the  enduring,  the  inner  cosmos. 

First  passion,  then  dispassion,  then  compassion 
— conquest  of  pairs  of  opposites  until  night  and 
day  are  seen  as  separate  sides  of  the  same  globe. 
So  with  pain  and  pleasure  and  all  fluctuations. 
Day  by  day,  while  learning  this  great  secret,  the 
aspirant  is  forced  to  die  to  the  thing  he  loves  most. 
Day  by  day  the  thing  that  he  hates  and  fears  most 
— for  that  he  must  live.  At  last,  loves  and  hates 
[127] 


THE      HIVE 


merge  together.  One  is  no  longer  focalised  upon 
a  point,  but  upon  a  universe.  He  arrives  at  the 
great  silence  in  himself,  the  static  momentum.  He 
no  longer  moves  with  the  world — the  passing  show 
goes  by.  He  transmutes  pain  into  joy — not  lying 
to  the  self,  but  because  pain  of  the  body  is  joy 
of  the  soul — joy  of  union,  joy  of  birth  that  comes 
from  pain. 

At  last  to  be  the  Spectator!  To  possess  the 
world,  to  realise  the  divinity  of  others,  the  ineffa 
ble  equality  of  Souls.  To  have  all, — the  moth 
ering  winds  of  the  hills  and  the  holy  breath  of  the 
sea;  to  move  and  laugh  and  die  with  all  the  world. 


[128] 


- 


12 

TOM  AND   THE  LITTLE   GIRL 


Y  "^HE  younger  boy  with  us — Tom,  now 
seven,  does  not  find  it  easy  to  express 
himself  through  writing.  He  draws 

""^^  well,  but  that  is  a  talent  which  I  would 
not  recognise  so  quickly  as  the  expression 
through  words.  I  mean  to  send  him  away  to  an 
artist  for  a  time.  Tom's  imagination  is  fertile 
and  expansive.  He  dictates  well — wonderful 
play  of  colours  through  his  mind.  He  talked  the 
following  to  an  amanuensis,  a  year  or  more  ago 
as  he  conned  over  a  handful  of  coloured  stones: 

"There's  a  wonderful  mystery  about  stones. 
.  .  .  One  like  a  mountain  that  the  fire  comes  up 
out  of — with  white  on  top  .  .  .  another  like  a 
cap  of  honey.  .  .  .  Another:  this  is  like  a  great 
big  mountain,  and  this  is  a  dog  full  of  food,  and 
he's  standing  on  a  dragon,  one  of  those  devilish 
dragons;  his  tail  is  curved  under  him,  and  a  spot 
on  him  near  his  neck.  He  looks  down  and  he  sees 
the  sky,  floating.  He  wonders  if  he  should  leap 
down  and  get  some.  There's  a  great  big  lake  un- 
[129] 


THE      HIVE 

der  him.  He  thinks  he  has  more  power  than  any 
thing  in  the  world — he's  looking  for  more  power. 
He's  wondering  where  it  is.  See  him  thinking. 
.  .  .  Here's  a  volcano  at  night — see  the  force, 
and  then  the  rain  beating  down  behind  it — even 
see  fairies  dashing  by  there.  Here's  a  man  with 
his  jaw  knocked  in.  Mystery  here — a  forest  at 
night.  This  is  like  a  coloured  man  that's  been 
in  a  prize-fight,  and  he's  gritting  his  teeth  because 
he  didn't  win;  he's  got  a  mug-nose  too.  There's 
a  fried-cake.  Another:  Here's  'Agra  Falls  and 
fairies  dashing,  and  sparkling  stones  at  night. 
That's  in  Japan — that's  true,  look  at  all  the  lan 
terns  up  there.  There's  some  India — water  dash 
ing  over  a  cliff,  another  like  a  smooth  cliff,  noth 
ing  to  hurt  it,  just  fairies  to  fly  around  it — and 
a  door-knob,  and  there's  a  hole  where  owls 
live.  .  .  ." 

Many  interesting  things  appear  in  these  dicta 
tions  provided  Tom's  helper  effaces  himself  suf 
ficiently  to  permit  the  boy  to  forget  externals. 
The  remaining  pages  of  this  chapter  is  a  sketch  of 
Tom's  case  written  by  the  Little  Girl  *  who  fur 
nishes  an  interesting  surface  of  understanding  for 
the  complications  of  this  lad.  Incidentally  her 
own  development  is  one  of  the  big  winnings  of 
Stonestudy  work.  The  Little  Girl  is  now  four- 

*  Jane  Levington  Comfort. 


TOM      AND     THE      LITTLE      GIRL 

teen  and  this  essay  will  show  something  of  her 
awakening : 

TOM 

He  is  seven,  restless  as  the  sea,  and  just  as  full 
of  mysteries.  Many  times  I  have  felt  a  strong 
spirit  in  the  body,  a  healer,  a  great  lover,  a  dear 
and  compassionate  comrade.  For  a  time  Tom 
meant  India  to  me.  I  could  see  the  blue  hills 
and  the  wide  dusty  roads,  the  cows  coming  home 
through  the  dusk,  and  the  little  Indian  mothers 
bringing  food  and  their  babies  to  the  feet  of  a 
withered,  white  old  man  in  a  big  Sannysin  robe. 
Always  I  seemed  one  of  the  mothers,  and  Tom  the 
master.  I  used  to  sit  at  his  feet  when  he  was 
very  small,  and  listen  carefully  to  his  wandering, 
yet  deep  and  wise  words.  He  seemed  to  unfold 
many  things  to  me  about  myself,  and  in  that  way 
helped  me  as  a  teacher  would,  though  he  did  not 
know. 

For  a  while  Tom's  quest  was  in  healing — his 
small  hands  were  always  laid  upon  our  hurts,  se 
rious  eyes  staring  upwards.  It  seemed  to  awaken 
the  past  in  his  soul.  Gradually  his  bent  turned  to 
other  things.  When  we  went  to  the  country  to 
live,  he  saw  Nature  for  the  first  time.  Tom  was 
very  much  at  home  with  the  old  Mother.  He 
loved  the  living  things  that  most  children  fear; 
the  bees  and  beetles,  the  blind  little  beings  that 
live  in  the  earth  and  the  small,  red-tongued  gar 
ter-snakes.  He  often  spoke  of  a  life  he  had  lived 
with  the  snakes — of  the  big  ones  that  used  to  love 

r  131 1 


THE      HIVE 


him  and  curl  around  his  neck.  I  never  could 
help  shuddering  a  little  at  the  thought,  but  Tom 
would  explain,  "They  won't  hurt  you  if  you  love 
them.  Then  they  will  love  you  too.  Snakes 
feel  just  what  you  feel — if  you're  afraid  of  them, 
they  get  mad." 

Again  I  would  think  of  India — the  great 
cobras  that  sit  before  a  pure  master,  opening  their 
hoods  to  listen  to  his  chanting.  Tom  knew  what 
purity  meant,  a  deepdown  purity  like  the  earth 
itself.  Why  should  anything  hurt  him?  .  .  . 
He  used  to  hold  the  bees  in  his  hands  and  walk 
through  a  cloud  of  double-winged  beetles  with 
utmost  carelessness.  Many  times  he  has  led  me 
through  a  cloud  of  them,  murmuring,  "They  won't 
hurt  you."  Once  he  disturbed  a  honeybee  in  the 
late  afternoon,  drunken  and  senseless  on  the 
fragrant  flowers.  It  stung  him.  He  shook  it  off 
his  hand  and  said  in  a  disgusted  voice,  "That 
wasn't  my  bee !" 

A  little  later  Tom  discovered  the  Unseen  of 
Nature.  I  mean  that  it  ceased  to  be  the  unseen 
to  him.  The  fairies  opened  their  mysterious 
arms,  and  we  saw  little  of  him  for  a  time,  so  lost 
was  he  in  their  wonder.  There  was  a  small  rock 
in  the  front  yard  that  he  used  to  sit  on  when  he 
was  looking  for  them.  The  busy  brown  gnomes 
appeared  to  him  first — often  rolling  pebbles  down 
the  cliff,  or  gathering  leaves  in  their  little  aprons. 
Then  the  tree-nymphs  would  come  to  him,  so 
green  and  fresh  and  sweet — with  bright  eyes  and 
coaxing  hands.  He  would  follow  laughingly 
[132] 


TOM      AND     THE      LITTLE      GIRL 

what  they  said  and  did,  always  explaining  to  us 
later  what  they  meant.  And  he  saw  the  spirits 
of  the  water,  far  out  over  the  lake,  mingled  with 
the  sunlight.  They  gave  him  much,  he  said,  but 
he  would  like  to  have  gone  out  to  them.  He 
said  that  burning  wood  unlocked  the  fire  fairies 
— let  them  out  into  freedom  and  light.  He 
loved  to  build  fires  on  the  beach,  watching  care 
fully  the  leaping  and  spreading  of  the  flames. 
The  salamanders  were  responsible  for  the  spread 
ing,  he  thought,  and  used  to  watch  their  little  red 
hands  at  work.  His  eyes  seemed  to  melt  as  they 
stared  so  far  and  deeply  into  things — way  past 
the  seen  into  that  which  is  nothingness  to  most 
of  us.  And  he  would  come  back  slowly  as 
though  it  were  hard  to  detach  himself  from  the 
enchantment.  Always  we  kept  very  still  at  such 
a  time,  for  fear  we  hurry  him. 

Out  of  the  magic  and  mystery  of  that  summer, 
out  of  the  warm  nights  full  of  stars  and  peace, 
and  the  days  of  sunlight  spent  with  the  beckoning 
fairies,  Tom's  soul  unfolded  another  big  quest. 
The  fairies  were  only  the  start  of  the  Unseen, 
though  we  thought  at  the  time  that  he  saw  all 
that  a  human  being  could.  At  last  the  Master's 
voice  reached  his  open  ears.  He  answered  im 
mediately. 

It  began  with  old  Indian  philosophy.  He 
heard  certain  reading  in  the  Study  one  day,  and 
later  asked  for  the  book.  It  was  a  little  book, 
written  in  words  of  one  syllable  by  a  Hindu  boy, 
telling  how  to  reach  the  Feet  of  the  Master.  The 
[  133  ] 


THE      HIVE 

next  morning  I  found  him  on  his  knees  before  it 
in  the  sunlight.  At  that  time  Tom  was  just 
learning  to  read.  It  was  hard  for  him,  but  he 
wanted  to  be  alone  with  the  spirit  of  it.  He 
handed  me  the  book  saying,  "Please  read  this  page 
aloud  to  me." 

The  young  Master  was  speaking  of  Discrimina 
tion  and  Onepointedness.  Tom's  face  filled  with 
the  wonder  of  one  who  has  found  the  thing  he  has 
been  wanting  for  a  very  long  time — for  ages  per 
haps.  He  said,  "If  you  asked  me  to  go  and  get 
you  a  book,  and  I  went,  but  instead  of  bringing 
the  book  back  to  you,  I  took  it  to  the  shore  and 
commenced  to  read,  forgetting  that  you  wanted 
it,  that  would  be  the  opposite  of  onepointedness, 
wouldn't  it?"  A  little  later,  he  said: 

"The  Master  watches  you  from  the  hills,  all 
the  way  up.  He  knows  all  that  you  do.  When 
you  do  small  things,  you  are  taking  Him  away 
from  yourself;  you  are  not  being  the  Soul.  Each 
time  you  do  something  great  and  brave,  the  Mas 
ter  comes  a  step  nearer.  When  you  become  your 
soul,  the  Master  comes  all  the  way  down  the  hill 
and  tells  your  brain  which  way  to  go — tells  you 
the  path,  the  way  home.  Then  you  have  earned 
it.  You  have  got  to  earn  everything,  everything 
that  comes  to  you.  ...  I  think  that  the  Master 
comes  and  takes  you  away  at  night,  shows  you 
many  things — tries  to  help  you.  But  pain  has  to 
teach  the  brain,  and  pain  is  the  lack  of  soul.  It 
hurts  your  soul  to  have  you  suffer.  It  hurts  the 
[134] 


TOM      AND     THE      LITTLE     GIRL 

Master  too,  but  they  both  know  that  you  are  learn 
ing  to  be  their  comrade  through  your  pain." 

Tom  paused.  In  his  eyes  there  was  that  won 
derful  melting  again,  and  a  joy  so  deep  and  pure 
that  it  made  my  heart  sing. 

"It  is  all  meant,"  he  added.  "All  is  meant, 
but  men  do  not  know  that  the  Master  is  watch 
ing.  For  ages  and  ages  the  Master  waits  so  pa 
tiently  for  his  friend  to  come." 

"His  friend?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.  Souls  are  always  comrades.  The  Mas 
ter  is  greater  than  you  are  only  because  he  has 
been  longer  on  the  path.  He  started  before  you 
did.  He  has  come  up  through  all  that  we  have. 
Just  think  how  long  my  Master  has  been  waiting 
for  me,  and  I  have  not  even  found  Him  yet." 

I  looked  at  the  little  body  of  him,  at  the  inno 
cence  of  the  eyes  and  mouth,  all  untouched  by  the 
world — so  pure  and  yet  crying  out  in  pain  because 
he  had  taken  so  long  on  the  quest.  .  .  .  His 
eighth  year  brought  Tom  into  regular  boyhood. 
The  young  brain,  always  before  silently  giving 
way  to  intuition,  began  to  speak  for  itself.  This 
stage  is  as  important  perhaps,  but  not  so  beau 
tiful  as  when  the  hushedness  and  glowing  of  the 
Unseen  touches  a  child.  Here  we  turned  from 
Tom,  and  the  things  that  creep  into  the  heart  of 
almost  every  boy  of  the  same  age,  crept  into 
Tom's  heart.  He  forgot  the  fairies — they  ceased 
to  call.  He  forgot  the  wide  roads  of  peace  and 
purity.  He  seemed  to  forget  that  the  Master  was 
still  waiting  so  patiently  on  the  hill  for  him  to 
[135] 


THE      HIVE 

open  and  receive.     But  we  knew  better  than  that. 

The  development  of  the  brain  always  robs  a 
child  of  the  inner  glowing  for  a  time,  but  it  all 
comes  back  again  with  a  great  dimension  added; 
the  instrument  is  then  keen  and  direct — a  power 
in  itself.  We  turned  from  Tom — a  young  brain 
standing  alone,  very  conscious  of  itself,  is  any 
thing  but  interesting.  At  the  time  we  were  in 
the  turmoil  of  departure,  each  of  us  thinking  in 
different  ways  about  the  long  journey  just  ahead, 
and  the  wonder  of  being  at  last  in  California. 
Tom  was  more  or  less  his  own  director  those  days. 

He  fell  into  crime,  looted  the  house  of  a  friend, 
denied  everything.  He  was  sent  to  his  quarters 
to  stay  until  he  found  himself  again.  It  took 
a  week  exactly,  but  he  found  a  deep  happiness  in 
being  alone  in  the  little  room  before  he  left  it. 
It  did  him  as  much  good  as  the  long  days  in  the 
sunlight  ever  could;  he  came  out  pale  and  wide 
eyed,  and  the  breath  of  a  soul  was  in  the  room 
when  he  entered. 

One  day  out  of  his  long  week,  I  went  to  him. 
The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  a  nest  of  grey 
clouds.  Dusk  had  almost  deepened  into  dark 
ness,  but  there  was  no  light  in  his  room.  He  sat 
there,  his  eyes  staring  ahead  of  him,  his  hands 
folded  tightly  in  his  lap.  I  walked  in  quietly 
and  sat  down  beside  him.  I  was  not  even  no 
ticed  ;  he  was  lost  in  his  thought.  At  last  I  asked, 

"Tom,  what  did  you  find  so  interesting  in  that 
cheap  business4?" 

"I  haven't  found  out  yet,"  he  said  grimly. 
[136] 


TOM     AND     THE      LITTLE      GIRL 

"Have  you  been  thinking  about  it?'' 

"Sure  have.     Been  thinking  all  day." 

"Has  nothing  come?" 

"No,  but  it's  coming  soon.  It  can't  take  long 
if  I  stay  here  like  this,  wishing  and  pulling  every 
minute." 

"Of  course  it  can't." 

He  continued  to  stare  into  the  darkness  ahead. 

"What  does  it  feel  like,  Tom?"  I  asked. 

"Your  soul  leaves  you.  .  .  .  Your  soul  won't 
stay  if  you  are  going  back." 

"Going  back?" 

"Yes.  I  mean  if  you  have  been  big  and  lis 
tened  to  its  voice,  and  then  stop.  If  you  are  less 
than  yourself  after  you've  been  more,  your  soul 
won't  stay." 

"What  do  you  do  when  your  soul  leaves  you?" 

"You  walk  the  Black  Path." 

He  looked  a  child  seraph. 

"That  path  is  not  interesting,  is  it?" 

"No.  You  have  got  to  know  what  it  is,  got 
to  walk  up  it  a  little  ways,  so  that  you  are  not 
afraid  of  it  any  more.  When  you  know  a  thing, 
you  are  not  afraid  of  it  any  longer.  Before  you 
know,  it  looks  all  dark  to  you.  Nothing  can  hurt 
you  when  you  are  not  afraid.  .  .  .  It's  just  the 
same  as  with  the  animals.  All  the  black  things 
that  come  into  you  are  animals.  If  they  find 
nothing  but  love  and  whiteness  inside,  they  will 
go  away  and  not  even  look  at  you  again;  but  if 
fear  and  darkness  are  there,  they  get  mad  and 
bite." 

[137] 


THE      HIVE 


Leaning  forward  with  a  laugh,  he  added, 
"You  can't  cut  across  from  the  black  path  to  the 
white.  You've  got  to  go  all  the  way  back  and 
start  over." 


[138] 


13 
THE   ABBOT 


r          ""^  HE  Abbot  is  now  seventeen.    He  is  do 
ing  well  at  Columbia.     Classes  and 
routine  there  are  mere  externals.    The 
Abbot  is  living  a  life  far  more  real 
than   appears — a   life   that   few  men   in   Amer 
ica  have  learned  how  to  live.     He  has  actually 
arrived  at  the  conviction  of  the  unfathomable 
riches  that  lie  within.    Many  occultists  and  a  few 
great  artists  have  a  working  knowledge  of  this 
kind.     We  hoped   the  Abbot  could   remain  at 
Stonestudy,  but  his  parents  wanted  some  letters 
after  his  family  name  as  well  as  before.     Our 
young  man  was  enjoined  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  is  putting  on  a  lot  of  brain 
things  that  work  admirably  with  the  inner  activ 
ity  which  we  made  much  of  in  our  work  together. 
In  another  book,*  I  told  of  the  Abbot's  awak 
ening — how  we  called  him  from  mysterious  re 
gions  of  silence  and  mystification,  to  a  more  or 

*  Child  and  Country. 

[139] 


THE      HIVE 


less  adequate  expression  of  material  facts.  Here 
was  a  boy  almost  overshadowed  by  his  own  soul 
at  times,  inclined  to  be  half  out  of  the  body  and 
not  altogether  present  in  the  mind,  when  moving 
among  the  sordid  affairs  of  the  world — a  lad  who 
knew  the  arrangement  of  planets  and  the  flow  of 
meteoric  matter  better  than  the  geography  of  our 
own  continent ;  who  swung  very  readily  back  into 
memories  of  other  lives,  mainly  monastic,  rather 
than  into  the  episodes  of  his  own  kid-days. 

I  forget  just  how  it  was  that  we  first  sensed  the 
giant  in  this  boy.  In  any  case,  we  struck  one. 
The  ordinary  training  that  I  would  give  an  Amer 
ican  youth  to  breathe  the  soul  of  him,  was  not  at 
all  necessary  with  the  Abbot.  Rather,  pressure 
was  exerted  from  the  first  to  make  him  come  down 
into  our  world,  to  make  him  be  one  of  us,  to  make 
him  see  streets  and  alleys,  doorsteps  and  servant- 
stairs.  They  have  succeeded  better  at  Columbia 
in  this  regard  than  we  were  able  to  do,  but  the 
wonder  and  satisfaction  of  it  all  is,  that  the 
aroused  mystic,  the  aroused  artist,  has  not  receded 
• — but  dominates  his  days  and  work.  I  understand 
that  he  is  considered  a  sensation  in  a  literary  way. 

He  is  not  different  from  his  fellows.  It  is  part 
of  our  ethics  to  belong  where  we  happen  to  be;  to 
do  the  things  that  others  do,  better,  if  possible, 
than  the  customary  performance;  to  begin  after 
that  to  be  our  inimitable  selves.  It  is  our  ideal 
to  move  about  the  world,  not  to  attract  attention, 
[  HO] 


THE      ABBOT 

to  be  quiet  and  calm  and  efficacious,  to  be  help 
ful  and  humorous  and  wise,  to  furnish  the  swift, 
unerring  word  or  hand  or  lift  in  the  midst  of  af 
fairs;  to  deny  ourselves  to  no  one;  to  hold  our 
selves  superior  to  no  one;  to  strive  laughingly 
toward  the  big  workmanship,  to  become  Players 
after  the  essential  apprenticeship,  to  win  the 
Laugh  at  last,  and  that  perfect  consummation 
which  only  comes  with  utter  and  instant  detach 
ment  when  the  task  is  accomplished. 

The  Abbot  was  sprawled  in  a  Study  shadow 
one  summer  afternoon,  when  I  suddenly  saw 
him  in  relation  to  big  sea-tales.  Usually  we 
tale-tellers  carry  our  packs.  I  saw  the  Abbot 
with  a  sea-chest  that  day.  His  was  not  the  way 
of  the  Arabian  fires  and  the  Assyrian  camel  paths 
— the  word-spinner's  usual  evolutionary  line.  He 
came  overseas  with  his  narratives.  ...  I  saw  him 
in  the  next  few  years  making  a  circle  around  all 
the  capes,  touching  all  the  ports  of  Asiatic  and 
insular  water  fronts — a  bit  of  Conrad,  a  bit  of 
Melville,  a  bit  of  Stevenson  ...  a  most  sump 
tuous  sea-chest  full  of  shells,  corals,  coins  and 
trinkets  from  all  the  Islands ;  feather  of  a  woman's 
fan  perhaps,  here  and  there,  silks  hazy  from  sea 
water,  crooked  knives  from  Malay  Isles,  whale 
bone  and  shark's  teeth,  pearl  of  the  mollusk,  a 
bit  of  ambergris — just  a  top  tray  of  the  Chest! 
Deep  mystic  parchments  farther  within,  a  corner 


THE      HIVE 

for  the  sacred  writings  of  all  the  world,  a  small 
type  mill,  a  great  wad  of  white  paper,  the  rest 
mainly  traces  of  a  long  glide  across  the  ocean 
floors. 

I  have  learned  to  go  very  slow  in  building  a 
matrix  of  my  own  thought  about  any  young  man's 
mind,  yet  I  told  the  Abbot  that  day  what  I  saw 
for  him — how  he  was  bound  to  do  the  big  sea- 
tales,  how  we  were  sick  of  steam,  sick  already  of 
the  big  hydroplanes,  sick  of  all  that  hurries,  all 
that  explodes,  all  that  has  the  taint  of  gas;  that 
the  world  presently  would  be  so  sick  of  noise  and 
explosions  and  show  and  speed,  that  professional 
soothers  would  be  in  great  demand,  like  the  Jap 
anese  masseurs  who  wait  upon  the  sleepless;  that 
the  sick  world  would  want  to  read  of  long,  loose, 
lazy  days  under  canvas,  of  the  few  ports  left 
where  they  haven't  set  up  recruiting  offices; — 
that  the  world  would  be  in  desperate  need  of  sun 
light  and  surf  and  wide  swinging  seas — that  he 
must  be  one  of  those  to  usher  in  the  old  romance 
of  the  sailing  craft  again. 

I  told  about  his  sea-chest  better  than  I  have 
told  it  here,  but  the  Abbot's  eyes  didn't  bulge. 
Presently,  however,  he  began  to  grow  that  way. 
.  .  .  His  Saturdays  and  Sabbaths  now  are  spent, 
not  in  Morningside  Heights,  but  down  among  the 
shipping  and  across  the  harbour,  where  the  big 
world  tramps  hang  out.  You  will  see  these 
things  in  his  letters.  I  have  several  of  his  yarns 


THE     ABBOT 


here,  but  I  am  not  going  to  run  any  of  them  in 
this  book.  They  are  good  yarns,  but  too  intrin 
sically  big  yet  for  the  handling  of  a  boy  of  seven 
teen.  He  has  too  much  calibre  for  his  brain  so 
far  to  carry  ten  thousand  words  to  superb  con 
summation.  I  want  to  spring  a  big  tale  pres 
ently.  I  have  a  lapful  of  his  random  letters 
from  days  spent  down  on  the  water  front,  and 
nights  under  the  study  lamp : 

DEAR  OLD  WASP  : 

Morning  mists  over  the  lake,  the  Pelee  com 
ing  up  out  of  them.  Just  had  a  night  with  John 
and  a  corking  good  run  of  work.  We've  been 
watching  the  sun  go  down  from  Lynster's  *  back 
lately,  and  breathing  the  planetary  heave  under 
the  stars,  with  the  milky  way  dipping  to  the  lake 
before  us.  This  inland  place  is  heavy  to  take. 
The  weight  of  agriculture  is  like  a  blanket  over 
all.  It  takes  three  or  four  pages  to  bore  up 
through  the  cuticle.  Me  for  a  get-away  to  the 
world  soon — to  feed  up  on  the  hum  of  feet  and 
voices  and  cars.  .  .  .  Blackbirds  are  beginning  to 
blacken  the  mornings  and  nights  again;  touch  of 
Fall  and  Pine-smoke  this  morning.  Real  itch- 
ings  in  the  ankles — to  you!  A  wonderful  syn 
thesis  for  us  all  when  we  meet  up  again.  .  .  .  I'd 
like  to  roam  the  world  with  John.  He  is  a  grand 

*  The  saddle  horse. 

[H3] 


THE      HIVE 

pal.  Could  joke  over  an  oven  made  out  of  a 
tomato-can,  as  well  as  eat  from  a  banquet 
table.  .  .  . 

A  day  or  two  later : 

.  .  .  Black  forces  strong  around  Stonestudy 
last  night.  .  .  .  About  eight-thirty  I  rode  over  on 
Lynt,  to  sleep  with  John.  Decided  to  have 
a  debauch  with  tea.  While  I  worked  on,  he  gath 
ered  the  cups  and  tea  and  electric  tea-kettle  to 
gether  and  got  things  going.  He  called  for  me 
to  come  and  make  the  tea.  He  was  seated  in  the 
big  chair  with  a  tableleaf  in  front  of  him,  and 
on  that  was  the  tea-kettle,  boiling.  .  .  .  One  leg 
slipped,  and  the  whole  boiling  collection  went  in 
his  lap.  ...  A  prince,  the  way  he  stood  it.  The 
bunch  was  just  coming  back  from  town.  Penel' 
rushed  over,  and  the  next  was  a  turmoil  right, 
cries,  olive  oil,  lint,  rags,  confusion  of  voices  and 
footsteps — too  many  people  and  the  little  guy  sort 
o'  lost  his  control — but  it  all  came  back  again. 
Almost  any  minute  I  am  looking  for  the  laugh 
from  him.  All  night  I  was  with  him.  Penelope, 
the  finished  heroine  as  always.  One  could  see  the 
shades  of  pain  pass  over  John's  face  time  and 
again.  His  nerves  jump — but  his  mouth  and 
eyes  are  certainly  getting  a  grand  hue  of  steel. 
.  .  ,  .Yours  right  along. 

[»44l 


THE      ABBOT 


Another : 

Hazy  summer  about.  Blue  over  the  lake  with 
shadows  deepening  in  the  distance.  Crops  dry 
ing  beneath  the  sun.  Leave  it  at  its  height — am 
headed  back  for  Columbia — where  I'll  let  time 
shape  the  winds  for  farther  "going." 

School  is  not  harmful  to  one  who  is  himself. 
I'll  take  philosophy,  and  then  be  over  to  tell  you 
who  stole  your  washboard.  ...  It  is  no  strug 
gle,  no  test,  for  one  to  be  lit  among  his  own  as 
we  are.  One's  depth  of  listening  is  best 
tested  in  crowds.  We've  got  to  separate — go  out 
and  change  the  continents  into  tablelands  of 
democracy. 

War  seems  settling  on  the  world  for  years 
longer,  but  there  is  a  bigger  order  coming  out  of 
the  incredible  chaos.  Each  must  see  God  and 
worship  through  his  work  to  shape  the  master 
beauty.  Every  one's  art  breaks  new  roads  which 
lead  to  one  place. 

Stories  are  coming  freer  every  day — I've  gotten 
across.  Don't  know  whether  it's  the  best  thing 
for  me.  But  I've  done  it,  and  that's  what  I 
wanted  to  know.  It  is  all  preparation.  Results 
are  beginnings.  I  look  back  now  on  the  summer 
of  '14.  It  was  heaven.  It  was  peace.  To  look 
at  the  cottage  lights  and  hear  the  voices  of  row 
ers  through  the  dusk  was  a  breath  from  God.  It 
was  peace,  it  was  relaxation,  a  deep  resting  of  tis 
sue  for  turmoil.  Depth  and  mastery  to  you. 


THE      HIVE 

THIS  TO  JOHN: 

The  thought  of  your  scarred  legs  has  been  with 
me  on  the  borderland  of  sleep  for  many  nights, 
also  our  hours  together  on  the  pine  needles.  To 
night,  with  the  sun  falling  sadly  over  the  iron 
mills,  I  walked  along  the  Heights  and  cast  an  eye 
down  into  brilliant  Harlem.  The  voices  of  the 
bargemen,  the  wheeze  of  tugs,  the  low  growl  of 
outpassing  vessels,  an  occasional  curse  from  a 
freighted  barge,  came  up  with  the  hum  of  the 
city.  There  seemed  to  be  some  goddess  entwined 
with  sea-weed  standing  over  the  ocean  of  struc 
tures.  She  held  a  finger  to  her  lips  for  silence, 
and  pointed  to  the  Lord  knows  where — well, 
where  I  felt  a  tumult  to  go,  to  satisfy  some  hot 
quest.  ...  I  was  lost  to  the  multitude  of  faces 
that  sent  up  a  passionate  and  incomprehensible 
hum  .  .  .  savour  of  youth  singing  in  the  veins. 

Presently  a  drizzle  drove  me  back  to  the  room. 
...  I  reached  up  and  flicked  out  the  lights.  .  .  . 
In  an  apartment  across  the  street  lives  an  old  man 
who  always  comes  to  his  window  at  dark  and 
gazes  up  and  down  the  streets.  His  head  is  grey 
— his  eyes  are  deep  and  old.  The  light-  from  his 
shaded  reading  lamp  falls  in  a  pool  of  dim  yellow 
about  his  carpet.  Sometimes  he  turns  out  the 
lamp,  and  leaves  the  fire-place  alone.  Sometimes 
his  head  falls  forward  on  his  chest,  and  he  dreams 
— I  suppose,  of  boundless  seas,  for  he  was  once  a 
sea-captain. 

[146] 


THE      ABBOT 


His  wandering  days  are  over — no  more  quest. 
The  houses  rise  to  his  eyes  like  one  long,  bleak, 
uncrested  wave  from  the  Arctic  Sea.  .  .  .  He 
means  old  clays,  but  we — we  must  never  grow 
old;  we  must  live  and  ever  be  full  of  creation  as 
the  cloud  is  full  of  lightning. '  We  must,  old  pal, 
ride  the  deserts,  drift  over  seas ;  we  must  spill  our 
work  as  we  go,  as  night  spills  its  stars  from  a  cas 
ket.  Fill  me  up  with  the  Pacific  in  your  letters 
— the  big  sunlight — the  colour  of  the  mountains 
where  they  dip  and  rise  to  clouds.  I  have  a  dry 
palate  for  it  all.  Fill  me — eye  and  ear  and  soul. 

Yours  deep  in  those  scars 

DEAR  OLD  MAN  : 

The  Hudson  is  very  still  this  morning;  a  few 
battleships  have  swung  out  with  the  tide;  gulls 
seem  to  be  forever  passing  up  and  down  the  river 
in  white  eddies;  smoke  from  the  factories  rises 
straight  and  white.  The  morning  sun  strikes  like 
a  sledge  upon  the  Palisades.  How  grand  that  old 
river  is,  and  how  untiring  in  its  endless  ebb  and 
flood — almost  like  a  solar  system  in  the  serene  way 
it  deals  with  human  traffic. 

A  great  new  sense  of  words  has  come  over  me 
lately.  At  the  very  birth  of  language  lies  a  chest 
of  rich  obsolete  words — quite  like  a  Spanish  treas 
ure  chest,  with  its  doubloons,  bezoar  stones  and 
"pots  of  Arica  bronze."  The  artists  go  treasure 
hunting  in  language,  and  a  few  do  startle  the 
[H7] 


THE      HIVE 

world  with  their  wealth.  The  live-long  day 
seems  to  me  now  like  a  shuttle  driving  back  and 
forth,  weaving  from  soul  to  matter,  a  golden 
fabric. 

This  word-chest  means  much  to  me  because  it 
deals  with  the  sea.  Lift  up  the  lid,  and  tucked 
away  in  those  little  drawers  lies  the  seaman's 
religion  in  bits  of  turquoise,  in  coils  of  fish  line 
and  hooks,  in  pink  sea-shells,  perhaps  in  an  old 
violin,  or  in  a  few  stray  books  of  Carlyle,  Goethe, 
Dante  and  Melville's  Moby  Dick.  The  point  is 
we  all  bungle  along  through  our  world-term 
somehow;  we  have  our  work  and  religion  and 
pleasures  and  tales  in  a  camphor-wood  chest  with 
a  brass  band  around  it.  Sometimes  we  bring  out 
the  violin  and  make  God-awful  discords,  calling 
it  music  of  the  sea;  we  brighten  people's  eyes  with 
our  bits  of  turquoise;  terrorise  them  with  the 
philosophy  that  Carlyle  and  Goethe  and  Moby 
Dick  have  given  us;  we  make  them  feel  that  end 
less  ivroom,  wroom,  wroom  of  the  ocean  that  is 
washing  in  our  souls. 

Yes,  we  must  first  learn  the  futility  of  life  be 
fore  we  can  live.  The  war  teaches  this  lesson 
well,  but  won't  it  be  great  when  everybody  is  sing 
ing  over  his  golden  shuttle  and  laughing*?  Won't 
it  be  great  when  the  chastened  New  Race 
springs  up,  like  green  shoots  at  the  passing  of 
winter*?  Won't  it  be  great  when  the  world  has 
grown  serene  and  wise  enough  to  sit  down  beside 
[148] 


THE      ABBOT 


a  blazing  bark  fire,  with  the  shadows  of  pine  trees 
about,  or  near  the  dim  breakers,  and  consider  it 
profitable  to  talk  about  the  stars'? 

.  .  .  There  are  times  when  one  feels  he  must 
be  alone — when  he  wants  to  be  connected  with 
nothing — when  he  wants  to  go  to  a  distant  and 
high  altitude,  and  there  boil  his  pot  of  alchemy 
— there,  where  the  air  is  dust  free,  and  the  in 
cense  of  one's  devotion  goes  straight  up.  He 
must  listen  and  listen,  until  he  believes  that  he 
hears  the  stars  humming  in  their  courses ;  then  the 
sun  drawing  like  a  magnet,  then  a  crescendo  of 
song  up  to  a  deafening  roar, — that  all  things,  all 
stars,  are  headed  towards  one  point  of  balance 
among  that  whole  mass  of  sapphires  we  see  above. 

Man,  but  the  joy  of  telling  tales,  of  recording 
the  warmth  of  human  hearts,  of  loving  men  and 
their  ways — to  fill  out  a  morning  with  that  golden 
shuttle!  One  has  but  to  sit  and  the  sun  on  the 
walls  and  the  shadows  in  the  corners,  or  if  at 
night,  the  flame  on  the  stones  of  the  hearth  turn 
to  words !  .  .  .  The  old  sea  is  full  of  that.  The 
heart  within  her  breast  sounds  the  footfalls  of 
quest;  the  ecstasy  of  life  tears  in  her  storm  and 
in  still  hours  she  sits  in  her  glitter.  .  .  . 

Some  day  we  shall  be  together  on  the  blessed 
Pacific  coast.  We  shall  have  bookshelves  and 
packages  of  dates,  bottles  of  cream  and  combs  of 
honey.  We  shall  work  with  that  rugged  lunge  of 
mountains  in  our  products;  and  that  endless  and 
[  H9] 


THE      HIVE 

insistent  wroom,  wroom,  wroom  of  the  ocean  in 
all.     Listen,,  here  is  a  day  as  we  shall  have  it : 

The  sun  lifting  up  the  depth  of  Canyon  shall 
awake  us.  After  we  have  cooked  and  eaten  of 
crisp  toast  and  honey  and  coffee,  we  shall  go  to 
our  desks  and  bring  out  a  most  rigid  problem  in 
mathematics,*  and  dwell  perhaps  for  an  hour  in 
drawing  all  forces  of  thinking  into  play — awak 
ing  the  mind — shaking  off  that  inertia  of  body. 
After  that  we  shall  penetrate  the  thing  which  we 
wish  to  work  upon  that  particular  morning.  We 
shall  see  its  functions  and  logical  action,  then  be 
gin  the  shuttle  and  weave  back  and  forth  with 
that  pliancy  that  sees  the  deepest  of  metaphysics 
in  an  old  man  lighting  a  pipe  or  loitering  over  a 
pork-pie.  To  top  the  morning,  we'll  have  a  meal 
of  milk  and  dates.  The  afternoon  shall  mean 
an  isolation  with  the  books — perhaps  on  the  sand 
with  the  sun  tanning  our  backs.  Both  healthfully 
and  mentally  an  efflux  of  soul.  At  about  five  in 
the  afternoon  comes  the  humming  calm — the  poise 
of  mind  and  soul  and  body.  Another  meal  of 
the  simple  foods  and  once  more,  production,  as  the 
sun  goes  into  the  sea — giving  one's  soul  the  might 
and  expanse  that  the  planets  use  in  weaving  their 
ways.  Perhaps,  at  ten  or  eleven  we  shall  reach 
up,  switch  out  the  electric  bulb  and  open  the  door. 
That  shall  be  a  day  mastered.  Side  by  side,  we'll 
walk  over  to  the  cliff  at  whose  base  mumbles  the 

*  Help ! 

[150] 


THE      ABBOT 


mighty  Pacific.  We  shall  pass  no  words — the 
earth'll  be  good  to  feel  and  smell.  We'll  hon 
our  the  still  night  of  stars. 

That  day  is  a  privilege  to  earn — our  bodies 
must  suffer  and  become  scarred  and  jostled  by  the 
currents  of  people,  and  cursed  upon  by  foul 
mouths.  All  pleasant  presently.  We  must 
know  the  heart  of  a  bartender  as  we  would  want 
to  know  the  heart  of  the  Christ.  Do  you  know 
that  Masefield  was  a  bartender?  The  secret  of 
the  real  artist  is  sanity.  One  must  grow  hair  the 
medium  length — keep  a  well  muscled  and  full 
lunged  body — and  if  chronic  fishermen  should 
happen  in  on  us  for  a  meal  we  must  be  able  to 
argue  that  a  hickory  pole  is  better  for  a  pound- 
net  than  pine;  or  if  a  devout  pastor — that  we 
would  much  rather  praise  God's  work  outside  on 
the  beach.  .  .  . 

To  JANE : 

Your  letter  this  morning  after  a  long,  wonder 
ful  run  of  work.  This  is  really  the  highest  day 
I've  had — real  rugged  work — bronze  moving  pic 
tures  before  me — faces — open  shirts  on  sunburnt 
breasts — and,  of  course,  the  eternal  sea.  Your 
letter  came  like  a  sudden  bag  of  sunlight  emptied 
into  a  mist.  The  water  became  blue  and  the 
promontories  sharp  like  ink  lines. 

And  about  Steve.  I  understand  all.  The 
draft  explains  his  not  writing.  And  this  war — 


THE      HIVE 


it's  like  a  maelstrom  rising  higher  and  higher. 
Next  summer  for  certain,  possibly  this  Christmas, 
it  means  I  go.  But  rather  than  go  as  a  private 
I'm  going  to  enlist  voluntarily  in  the  aviation 
corps.  Flying  only  would  have  as  much  thrill  as 
doing  the  climax  of  a  story.  That's  like  the  sea. 
And  I'm  not  panicky  or  worried  about  it.  I  feel 
in  some  unconscious  way  that  the  balance  of  the 
cosmos  demands  it.  God,  nobody  should  drag 
now!  It's  just  like  a  marshfire  that  grows  and 
grows  to  let  the  new  green  shoots  come  under  in 
spring.  It's  like  a  big  song.  I  would  not  go  to 
fight  Germany,  or  France  or  England  or  America. 
I'd  go  because  it's  a  cleanser.  One  must  play 
with  the  song  of  many  feet  and  express  with  the 
original  song.  One  must  flash  pictures  to  the 
many  eyes  of  their  own  being.  Oh — it's  a  song, 
the  whole  thing !  And  I'm  looking  forward  to  it. 

Only  the  ones  such  as  John  and  Tom  shall  es 
cape.  Don't  you  see  the  joy,  the  peace,  the 
grandeur  in  owning  a  scar,  in  being  bled  white? 
The  first  year  of  the  war,  England  was  black  with 
mourning.  Now,  she  is  white.  .  .  .  The  work  is 
on  me  with  talons. 

I  am  looking  only  at  the  impossible  heights — 
of  a  portrayal  of  life — the  rugged  life  in  endless 
volumes.  I  have  made  an  oath  silently  with  my 
self  that  in  three  years  I  shall  do  a  book.  .  .  . 
The  work  comes  now  just  as  if  I  were  to  sit  down 
beware  a  fire-place  with  shadows  and  light  around 


THE      ABBOT 

stones,  and  were  to  grow  interested,  with  stars  low 
on  the  horizon  like  live  sparks. 

And  friends'?  A  foolish  question!  I  mean 
that  I  must  be  alone  in  the  formative  thrall  of 
work.  I  did  want  your  letter.  But  forget  pity. 
That  is  a  thing  that  stifles  soul.  I  do  not  ask, 
by  all  the  stars,  I  do  not  ask  for  anything.  The 
highest  of  all  things  to  you  all. 

And  Steve?  He  has  too  much  of  the  Song  to 
be  trodden  or  be  lost  or  be  ground  in  mud.  You 
are  all  friends — but  I  must  be  alone  now.  The 
work  is  rising.  .  .  . 

To  JOHN: 

There  ain't  no  sun  beatin'  in  my  doorway,  and 
there  ain't  none  of  your  sacred  seas  and  canyons 
around;  but  there  is  a  socialist's  riot  in  the  street 
below — kerosene  torches  a-going — one  shaggy 
haired  enthusiast  is  standing  on  a  soap  box  and  is 
wagging  his  jaw  in  an  athletic  way.  .  .  .  How's 
the  fire  burning  under  your  type-mill"?  What's 
the  brand  of  smoke  it  gives  up — poetry,  action, 
lumps  of  granite  or  ladles  of  ocean"?  I'm  all  lit 
up  in  this  place  here — because  things  are  moving 
— real  issues  are  gathering — and  the  pulse  of  liv 
ing  is  so  close  that  I  can  almost  feel  it  occasionally. 
Last  Saturday,  went  to  a  place  called  Rockaway 
— and  oh  man — rocks — rugged  grey  and  eroded 
— surf  bitten — gnarled,  twisted — and  they  tossed 
the  sea's  white  jaws  about  like  bits  of  cotton. 
[153] 


THE      HIVE 

Real  sea  coast  it  was — with  a  little  smack  in  the 
purple  way,  her  sails  bellied,  her  mouth  lapping 
the  brine — an  old  fisherman  browsing  around  the 
shores  for  clams  while  his  wife  hauled  up  the  nets, 
basketed  the  cod  and  upturned  their  boat. 

Put  an  extra  stick  under  the  machine  and  line 
a  few  of  your  aphorisms. 


THE   ARTIST    UNLEASHED 


f          ~"^HE   young   workmen   here    do   essays 
well,  earlier  than  short  stories.  Longer 
training  is  required  for  fiction.     The 
reason  is  obvious.    Fiction  work  takes 
brain.     The  Stonestudy  idea  is  to  set  free  the 
greater  Artist  within.     Essays  and  ethical  works 
are  the  natural  fruits  of  the  inner  life  of  the  ages; 
story-production  requires  facility  and  development 
of  the  everyday  working  consciousness.     Straight 
brain  is  needed  to  arrange  settings,  keen  develop 
ment  of  actual  tissue  to  note  and  arrange  and  re 
member.     Also  a  big  working  surface  of  self-crit 
icism  must  be  prepared. 

There  is  a  quality  of  fiction  that  seems  to  set 
free  a  larger  consciousness  and  to  bring  with  it 
settings  and  atmospheres  of  another  age.  This 
sort  of  phenomenon  encourages  the  idea  of  the 
continuity  of  consciousness — before  and  after  the 
three-score-and-ten.  It  may  be  that  the  greater  the 
Artist,  the  more  of  these  veins  of  syntheticated  ex 
perience  are  open  to  his  every-day  working  mind. 


THE      HIVE 

That  may  really  be  what  sumptuous  artistic  equip 
ment  is — the  capacity  to  open  up  the  old  loves  and 
scenes  and  adventures  of  the  long  road.  Intui 
tion  is  explained  as  the  use  of  the  result  of  massed 
experiences,  intellect  the  coping  with  one  at  a 
time;  intuition,  a  light  that  flashes  from  peak  to 
peak,  intellect  as  a  running  fire  up  and  down  from 
height  and  vale. 

Certainly  intellect  alone  will  never  make  a  great 
drama  of  life  and  love,  yet  action  and  romance  of 
the  present  hour  draw  hard  upon  one's  present  life 
training  and  the  faculties  and  tastes  of  his  im 
mediate  culture — actual  brain  possession  and  the 
ordering  thereof.  A  child  can  portray  superbly 
well  some  ancient  imprint  upon  the  Soul,  even 
the  passages  of  his  own  initiations  through  earth, 
water,  air  and  fire,  his  brain  not  conscious  of  the 
real  nature  of  what  is  coming  forth ;  yet,  the  same 
child  cannot  put  the  cohering  line  through  a  se 
ries  of  episodes  occurring  under  his  own  notice. 
Something  of  this  mental  grasp  is  necessary  to 
make  the  artful  effect  required  in  a  short  tale. 
The  child's  mind,  in  the  first  place,  is  trained  to 
listen  and  interpret  the  experiences  of  the  larger 
consciousness;  in  the  second  set  of  conditions,  he 
is  forced  to  rely  upon  actual  brain  tissue  which 
requires  the  training  and  culture  of  the  years. 

Art  is  composition.  The  farther  you  go,  the 
finer  the  tools.  It  is  difficult  to  train  the  fingers 
to  intricate  tricks  of  weaving,  or  the  brain  to  sort 


THE      ARTIST      UNLEASHED 

and  place  the  facts  and  colours  and  surprises  of  a 
present-day  narrative  or  tale,  but  the  soul  may 
be  called  upon  to  express  through  the  narrow 
temples  of  an  awakened  child  its  cosmic  under 
standing,  its  ordered  firmament. 

Decades  of  observation  and  reporting;  firm  and 
verified  actuality  of  knowledge  and  opinion;  to 
these,  added  experience  and  the  excellence  of  or 
der — such  is  the  training  of  the  intellectual  artist 
who  times  his  production  to  his  own  generations. 
He  pays  the  price  in  pain  and  subjection  to  the 
things  that  are;  he  knows  well  the  meaning  of  la 
bour;  often,  though  he  may  still  laugh  as  an  ar 
tist,  he  has  forgotten  how  to  laugh  as  a  man. 

My  desk  here  is  covered  with  papers  and  poems 
of  a  beauty  this  intellectual  artist  cannot  reach, 
of  a  freedom  he  can  never  know,  until  he  lifts  the 
torch  of  his  consciousness  out  of  and  above  the 
brain,  making  that  serve  quite  as  his  knees  bend 
and  serve.  Thinking  of  these  things  to-day,  the 
door  of  th'e  Study  opened  and  the  Little  Girl  gave 
me  her  work.  She  writes  things  of  the  larger  con 
sciousness  without  effort,  but  finds  it  hard  and 
wearing  to  narrate  the  immediate  matters  of  life. 
To  her,  the  fine  short  story  of  the  present  hour  is 
the  great  accomplishment,  the  ideal  she  is  working 
toward. 

With  another  she  goes  often  to  the  cities — 
rambling  among  the  rooming-houses,  cheaper  res 
taurants  and  mills.  She  means  to  work  in  the 
[1571 


THE      HIVE 

mills  soon — to  forget  herself  and  forget  us  for  a 
time,  to  be  with  the  harder-lucked  girls  whom  she 
loves  with  thrilling  passion.  She  has  brought 
home  from  these  little  adventures  wonderful 
stories  of  the  patience  and  the  laughter  and  the 
heroism  crowding  like  hidden  sacred  presences 
about  the  duller  lives.  She  brings  a  humour  to 
the  telling  of  the  divine  secrets  of  the  poor — the 
clutching  pang  for  food,  the  soldier  going,  his 
baby  coming,  the  tortured  spine,  the  stunted,  the 
darkened,  the  wasted — an  irresistible  divinity 
about  it  all — pain  impermanent,  joy  enduring. 
Back  of  the  lacking  eyes  and  leaking  lives,  she 
sees  wonders  that  Zola  never  saw,  that  none  can 
see  with  mere  intelligence,  that  none  can  dream, 
who  sees  only  the  here  and  now,  who  has  not 
learned  to  laugh  at  the  so-called  injustices  of  men, 
who  cannot  see  the  greater  order  to  come  because 
the  present  chaos  is  so  devastating. 

One  may  report  minutiae  of  torments,  mass  the 
items  of  degradation  and  bring  forth  a  great  doc 
ument  of  the  underworld — but  these  are  mere 
foundations.  The  Builders  bring  the  dream, 
they  live  the  hope,  they  open  the  long-road  con 
sciousness,  they  substantiate  their  visions  of  bet 
ter  days,  bring  order  and  coherence  to  all  the 
splendid  toil  of  the  intellectualist;  they  raise  their 
edifice  upon  all  that  is  done.  .  .  .  Here  is  the 
Little  Girl's  work  of  to-day's  writing : 
[158] 


THE    ARTIST    UNLEASHED 

MEDITATION 

In  the  night  the  Master  came  down  to  a  woman 
who  lay  sad  and  sleepless  in  a  dark  house.  He 
came  so  near  that  she  felt  his  holy  radiance.  Her 
soul  breathed;  her  body  ceased  to  tremble;  she 
felt  within  his  sacred  circle.  The  Master 
smiled  and  said: 

"Why  do  you  not  sleep  *?" 

The  woman  answered,  "I  am  carried  away  by 
thoughts  that  will  not  hush.  Night  after  night 
I  lie  here  so  bitterly  close  to  old  dreams.  I  real 
ise  that  they  are  not  worthy,  but  my  brain  is  full 
of  them." 

The  Master  smiled  again.  "There  is  a  way  to 
compel  the  silence  of  the  brain." 

"I  have  not  found  it,"  said  the  woman. 

"Learn  to  be  the  soul,"  the  Master  said.  He 
suggested  a  way  to  begin — then  was  gone. 

The  rest  of  that  night  the  woman  thought  of 
his  words.  Deeper  and  deeper  his  words  sank 
into  her  heart.  When  morning  came,  a  happi 
ness  brooded  within;  she  dressed  quickly  and 
went  out.  .  .  .  Back  of  her  little  house  rose  the 
golden  brown  hills.  She  climbed,  and  at  the  top 
of  the  nearest,  sat  down.  The  peace  and  purity 
and  fragrance  of  the  sun-steeped  hills  filled  her 
soul.  For  a  long  time  she  thought  in  silence,  then 
slipping  off  her  loose  white  sandals,  said :  "I  be 
gin  with  the  grass.  Yes,  I  begin  with  my  feet. 
.  .  .  How  wonderful  you  are — so  ready  to  obey, 
to  give  your  service  at  any  time!  What  would 
[159] 


THE      HIVE 

happen  if  you  carried  me  other  than  my  will? 
Supposing  some  day  I  should  be  walking  fast  to 
the  house  of  my  beloved,  when  you  suddenly  took 
me  the  other  way !" 

She  laughed,  and  added:  "You  stay  with  me 
all  my  life,  and  little  by  little  are  carrying  me  up 
the  shining  path  to  the  Father's  house.  And  yet 
— how  strange!  I  am  not  you.  .  .  .  And  my 
knees,  how  wonderful  and  willing — all  limber 
and  full  of  life — helping  me  in  all  ways  to  do  all 
things — bending  gently  when  I  bow  in  holy  com 
munion,  expressing  joy  through  free,  easy  move 
ments,  mute,  yet  strong  before  pain!  There  is 
nothing  more  wonderful  in  the  world  than  you. 
Yet — I  am  not  my  knees. 

"And  you,  old  heart,"  she  added.  "You  have 
endured  the  keenest  pain;  you  have  loved  and 
given  yourself,  have  hated  and  become  black  only 
through  pain  to  whiten  again — old  heart  of  many 
rendings — until  all  life  was  tragedy,  and  you  al 
most  ceased  to  beat.  Little  heart,  sanctuary  of 
the  soul — room  for  his  rest.  .  .  .  Yet  I  am  not 
the  heart! 

"And  the  white  throat  in  which  the  lotus  un 
folds  its  mystic  petals  of  light — I  am  not  the 
throat!  .  .  .  And  the  mind,  stream  for  the 
soul's  fulfilment — listener,  runner,  interpreter  of 
light — mate  of  the  soul  in  all  things,  ever  ready, 
sparkling  with  the  inner  fire, — I  am  not  the  mind. 
You  can  hurt  me  no  longer.  I  am  free!" 

The  woman  sitting  alone  upon  the  hilltop, 
paused  again.  "What  am  I?"  she  almost  cried. 
[  160  ] 


THE      ARTIST      UNLEASHED 

It  was  as  though  the  hills,  the  air  and  the  ris 
ing  sun  joined  her  in  the  answer — "I  Am,  .  .  . 
Longer  than  the  living  flame  leaps  within,  I 
Am.  Longer  than  sun  and  planets  radiate  light, 
I  Am.  Longer  than  worlds  give  birth  to  form,  / 
Am.  I  am  one  with  the  rocks  and  the  sea,  one 
with  the  warmth  and  light,  one  with  the  earth,  one 
with  Humanity. 

"I  am  Humanity.    /  Am." 


It  is  only  when  the  Little  Girl  brings  in  a  bit 
of  fiction  that  we  remember  her  years.  The 
brain  that  even  now  can  polish  a  detached  inci 
dent,  or  clip  into  firing-form  a  bit  of  humour  of 
the  street,  cannot  as  yet  order  the  narrative  to  a 
culminating  effect.  She  is  in  her  brain,  which  is 
only  fourteen,  struggling  with  the  matters  of  time 
and  space,  wherein  only  lie  pain  and  bewilder 
ment. 

Art  is  long.  The  training  of  the  hand  and  in 
tellect  requires  the  years — but  not  the  labour,  not 
the  agony,  not  the  mad  strain  supposed  to  pre 
pare  one  for  an  artistic  career  by  those  who  be 
lieve  mental  equipment  to  be  all.  .  .  .  The  key 
to  this  whole  discussion  is  the  fact  that  the  brain 
can  be  developed  more  in  a  year  through  inner 
awakening  than  in  a  decade  by  the  usual  methods 
of  external  impacts  alone.  .  .  .  The  ideal  educa 
tion  is  the  balancing  of  the  without  with  the 
within — the  tallying  of  the  world  without  with 
[161] 


THE      HIVE 


the  world  within — the  same  old  story  of  the  king 
dom  without  clearing  its  correspondences  with  the 
kingdom  within. 

The  Little  Girl's  ideal  is  to  do  great  stories. 
They  challenge  her  by  their  very  difficulty. 
When  I  see  where  she  stands  now,  and  think  of 
the  far  ways  we  elders  went  to  learn  the  game; 
when  I  see  what  the  twenty-year-olds  are  doing 
now,  how  they  command  their  mysticism — a 
harder  task  for  me  than  the  accomplishment  of 
physical  results;  when  I  see  the  inner  bloom  and 
co-ordination  and  the  inimitable  surfaces  which 
come  to  all  the  arts  by  the  development  of  the 
soul  life  first,  the  listening  for  the  Master  within 
— I  want  to  get  my  hands  on  them  all,  upon  all 
the  young  builders  of  the  New  Race.  I  want  at 
once  to  awaken  within  them  the  Spectator — the 
One  who  cannot  be  swung  back  and  forth  in  the 
pairs  of  opposites,  who  cannot  give  himself  to  the 
partisans,  who  has  glimpsed  the  Plan  and  offers 
it  full  adoration,  who  says  accordingly  that  the 
best  possible  thing  that  can  happen  is  the  thing 
that  happens  next.  These  are  the  young  Players 
who  will  reveal  life  by  living  it — portray  life  as 
naturally  as  breathing,  whose  equipment  is  not 
possessions,  not  even  brain  possessions,  but  spir 
itual  en  rapport  with  all,  oneness  with  all  life. 

I  remember  struggling  for  effects.  These  young 
people  breathe  effects.  I  remember  style  as  a 
studied  attainment.  These  young  people  ac- 
[162] 


THE      ARTIST      UNLEASHED 

knowledge  but  one  style — that  is  being  one's  self. 
...  I  want  to  set  many  of  them  free  from  within 
outward.  In  their  gladness  at  the  finding  of  them 
selves,  they  will  go  forth  to  include  the  world; 
they  will  bring  to  it  the  compassion  which  en 
folds  all,  reveals  all.  .  .  .  Love  the  world  well 
and  you  will  understand  it.  Love  the  world  well, 
and  you  will  write  well  to  it.  Give  it  yourself, 
and  the  world  is  yours. 


1 


Little  Girl  sketched  this  im 
pression  of  an  Indian  Summer 
Dusk: 


.  .  .  Just  now  the  great  blue  dusk,  after  an 
Indian  summer  day.  It  deepens  and  seems  to 
laugh,  then  all  is  night.  Huge  black  clouds  roll 
up,  promising  a  storm.  Against  them,  tall,  self 
ish,  unafraid,  stand  the  poplar  trees.  The  great 
Mother  of  the  dusk  is  singing,  the  God  in  Nature 
is  singing,  and  Nature's  belongings,  all  of  them, 
sing  in  this  magical  moment.  One  feels  it  all  in 
one's  self,  feels  the  glory,  the  romance,  the  very 
core-life  of  the  Universe.  The  matings  too,  tak 
ing  place  in  the  grass  and  air;  the  matings  of  the 
two  streams,  the  two  grains  of  sand ;  the  matings 
of  butterflies,  birds  and  bees.  It  all  flows 
through  one's  body  like  music  and  honey  and  sun 
shine.  .  .  . 

Nothing  but  space  is  around  me.  I  feel  all 
hollow  inside.  Power  and  beauty  and  all  things 
else  flow  through  .  .  .  and  out,  like  a  sieve.  My 
[164] 


WORK     IN      SHORT     STORIES 

body  is  far  below  me,  yet  it  will  be  taken  care  of. 
It  does  not  stumble,  nor  make  any  clumsy,  un 
necessary  movement.  Finding  it  alone  and  for 
gotten,  Rhythm  catches  it  in  her  gentle  arms. 
Slowly,  softly,  gently,  Rhythm  carries  it  along, 
the  same  that  carries  the  deer  so  swiftly  in  the 
forest,  the  mountain  sheep  from  ledge  to  ledge 
and  over  valleys,  and  that  which  waves  the  trees' 
long  arms  so  gracefully.  .  .  .  The  night  moves 
on  its  way,  the  threat  of  storm  is  passed.  I  am 
back  again — an  untellable  freshness  has  sweet 
ened  hair  and  clothing.  I  am  all  glowing  inside. 

This  was  done  two  years  ago.  There  was  a 
kind  of  dream  story  which  she  recently  finished, 
gratifying  the  artistic  sense  entirely,  but  in  a  way 
that  ruined  it  for  the  general  reader.  It  was  all 
new  to  her  that  there  could  possibly  be  two  ways 
to  regard  a  bit  of  workmanship.  Five  or  six 
story-writers  were  present  for  the  reading,  and 
out  of  the  fruits  of  that  evening,  we  surely  saw 
the  lesser  beauty  give  way  before  a  greater.  We 
forecasted  the  readers  of  the  future,  who  would 
prefer  the  more  spiritual,  more  challenging  story 
texture  and  denouement. 

There  has  always  been  The  Few — glad  to  dis 
cover  the  real,  answering  to  interior  order  and 
clarity,  "straight  grain," — but  the  fact  for  en 
thusiasm  now  is  that  the  world  is  being  peopled 
with  the  awakened.  These  young  moderns  are 
recognising  each  other  from  day  to  day,  pulling 
[165] 


THE     HIVE 

together  for  better  social  order,  utilising  the  wis 
dom  of  the  East,  and  the  drive  of  the  West — la 
bouring  in  new  paths,  daring  new  leaps,  working 
out  philosophies  as  fresh  and  ancient  as  the  dawn 
and,  what  is  straighter  to  the  point,  demanding 
modern  books,  written  out  of  an  integrity  to 
match  their  own.  .  .  . 

Short  story  writing  in  America  is  less  a  trade 
and  more  of  an  art  since  Edward  J.  O'Brien,  the 
poet,  took  his  chair  in  the  flow  of  the  output  and 
began  to  say  which  was  which.  There  are  a  num 
ber  of  people  in  America  who  know  a  good  short 
story  when  they  see  one;  this  is  true  among  those 
who  buy  short  stories,  but  editors  cannot  always 
buy  what  they  want.  A  deal  of  mechanism  in  a 
magazine  has  to  be  oiled  and  energised  by  differ 
ent  kinds  of  minds  from  those  who  paint  the  pic 
tures  and  write  the  tales.  O'Brien  knew  both 
ends — also  he  knew  that  big,  unobtrusive  part  of 
the  market  that  looks  long  and  pointedly  for  the 
real  tale. 

He  is  a  queer  boy — from  the  bleak  fishing 
grounds  north  of  Boston.  He  is  in  no  hurry. 
You  couldn't  tell  if  he  really  wants  anything. 
He  doesn't  seem  to  want  much — for  O'Brien. 
...  After  he  had  his  main  line  and  most  of  the 
ramifications  of  his  idea  laid,  he  told  the  editors 
to  send  on  the  stories.  Most  of  them  did. 
O'Brien  did  a  lot  of  work  in  a  few  weeks,  did  it 
startlingly  well.  He  started  something.  .  .  . 
[166] 


WORK     IN      SHORT      STORIES 

Now,  if  a  writer  sits  down,  suddenly  struck  with 
a  fine  idea  for  a  tale,  and  this  fine  idea  precludes 
the  possibility  of  selling  it  for  a  high  price — the 
writer  dares  go  ahead  and  finish  the  task,  because 
he  knows  O'Brien  will  get  to  the  thing  in  due 
time,  and  that  if  it  is  really  what  it  seems  and 
the  performance  of  the  idea  adequate,  then  the 
work  will  not  be  utterly  lost. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  is  a  bit  of  self-placa- 
tion,  since  no  work  is  lost;  no  one  gets  the  value  of 
a  big  thing  to  anything  like  the  degree  of  the  man 
who  does  it;  no  big  thing  is  lost  from  the  world, 
not  even  if  dropped  in  a  sewer,  if  it  is  really  im 
portant  for  the  world  to  have  it.  We  are  all  a 
bit  too  heavily  handicapped  with  our  own  idea  of 
what  the  world  should  have  from  our  own  shops 
— at  the  same  time,  when  we  are  young,  we  pant 
for  the  quicker  return,  the  answering  hail  within 
reason — at  least,  within  time  and  space.  Now 
O'Brien  has  come,  strangely  arrived,  his  proper 
phylacteries  in  place,  the  touch  of  tinted  haze 
about  his  head,  the  right  man. 

Back  of  all,  however,  is  the  workman's  own 
spine.  That's  the  best  thing  to  lean  on;  and 
when  the  going  is  heavy,  to  learn  to  do  without. 
We  often  remind  each  other  in  Chapel  of  the 
modern  artist  Cezanne,  who  moved  about  his 
painting  for  many  years,  painting  the  thing,  satis 
fying  his  soul,  and  leaving  his  canvasses  around  in 
the  fields  for  the  peasants  to  laugh  at  or  mull  over. 
[167] 


THE      HIVE 

.  .  .  They  have  long  since  been  brought  in  out  of 
the  rain — those  canvasses.  I  forget  the  incredible 
thousands  his  littlest  sketch  brings  now.  .  .  . 
But  Cezanne  got  the  films  out  of  himself — tallied 
them  off — the  landscapes  within  and  without, 
when  it  did  him  most  good.  It  never  fails. 
What  was  good  for  the  artist  is  good  for  the  rest 
of  us  afterward. 

Meanwhile  much  is  still  to  do  in  the  story 
world.  The  big  smash  of  the  moving  pictures 
hasn't  cleared  from  our  game  yet.  It  will  be  the 
cause  of  greater  tales  before  the  end  is  seen,  for 
you  can't  portray  the  realities  of  romance  upon  a 
flat  screen.  For  a  time  the  many  thought  it  was 
no  longer  necessary  to  learn  to  read,  because  there 
was  such  a  torrent  of  pictures  everywhere,  but  it 
was  only  through  the  pictures  that  the  few  has 
finally  managed  to  realize  how  marvelously  pic 
torial  mere  words  are,  and  how  few  words  are 
required  when  they  are  imaginatively  driven.  One 
day  in  Stonestudy  we  discussed  these  story  and 
screen  affairs,  looking  ahead  somewhat  to  better 
times  than  these.  One  of  our  young  men,  whose 
story  is  told  in  a  later  chapter,  put  down  the 
things  we  talked  about.  This  is  Shuk's  writing: 

A  fresh  and  different  vitality  is  manifest  to 
day  in  American  literature.     At  various  points 
around  us,  dealing  with  words,  colours  and  the 
subtler  tools,  are  active  young  workmen  who  for 
[168] 


WORK     IN      SHORT      STORIES 

the  first  time,  in  the  fullest  sense,  may  be  termed 
"North  American."  The  first  characteristic  of 
this  new  element,  these  young  flexible  and  vig 
orous  minds,  is  that  they  are  workmen — not  la 
bourers,  not  professionals,  not  primarily  artists  in 
anything  unless  it  be  life — but  workers  first,  and 
after  that  novelists,  poets,  musicians,  painters  or 
politicians.  They  are  not  competitors.  They 
have  not  forgotten  the  warm  side  of  justice,  but 
they  know  well  the  stern  face  of  compassion — 
they  know  that  it  takes  Christ  and  anti-Christ  to 
make  a  world.  They  are  neither  modest  nor  ego 
tistical,  being  for  the  most  part  busy  and  intensely 
alive.  This  implies  their  joy. 

The  great  love  story  has  not  been  written. 
The  few  great  love  stories  of  the  world  have  to  be 
pieced  out  by  the  imagination.  We  find  that  we 
have  been  told  that  certain  are  great  love  stories, 
but  they  do  not  stand  examination.  The  classic 
form  will  not  do  for  the  New  Age.  There  is  to  be 
a  new  language — for  literary  handling.  It  may 
be  called  American,  to  distinguish  it  from  English 
in  the  accepted  form.  It  is  to  be  brisk,  Vrief,  brave 
and  ebullient — to  meet  the  modification  all  must 
reckon  with — the  screen-trained  mind. 

American-mindedness  of  itself,  cannot  yet  ac 
cept  a  great  love-story.  It  would  be  called  "sen 
timental"  if  not  lascivious.  The  average  Amer 
ican  is  an  impossible  lover,  making  it  incident  to 
business.  The  real  and  the  sham  are  equally 
above  him.  He  would  not  know  when  to  be  ex 
alted  or  when  to  be  ashamed.  He  thinks  his  own 
[169] 


THE      HIVE 

passion  is  evil,  and  thus  makes  it  so.  The  great 
love-story  can  only  be  written  with  creative  dy 
namics,  and  can  only  be  accepted  as  yet  by  the  few 
of  corresponding  receptivity.  There  is  nothing 
soft  about  true  romance.  Some  passionate  singer 
of  the  New  Age  will  likely  appear  right  soon,  his 
story  to  have  the  full  redolence  and  lustre  of  the 
heart,  his  emotions  thoroughbred,  his  literary  qual 
ity  at  the  same  time  crystalline  with  reality. 

The  big  adventure-story  has  not  been  done  so 
far.  The  day  of  guns,  horses  and  redskins  is 
over.  Photoplays  have  developed  these  fiction 
resources  to  the  limit,  proving  to  those  writers 
born  to  be  modern  that  their  full  tales  can  never 
be  shown  on  a  flat  surface.  There  will  be  under 
currents,  overtones,  invisible  movements,  tensions 
upon  the  reader,  not  only  from  between  the  lines, 
but  between  words.  The  story-teller  of  the  New 
Age  may  handle  his  theme  in  words  of  one  sylla 
ble,  but  his  tale  will  have  an  intensity  scarcely  to 
be  explained — only  responded  to  by  minds  which 
cannot  be  satisfied  by  two-plane  production — 
minds  which  demand  more  of  life  than  the  camera 
sees. 

The  real  war-story  of  to-day,  even  for  to-mor 
row,  ought  to  arrive  soon.  This  is  an  age  for  an 
epic.  Some  keen  and  comprehensive  mind  will 
arise — a  literary  genius  who  will  include  the  pa 
triot,  the  anarchist,  the  poet,  dramatist,  humani 
tarian,  theosophist,  dreamer,  judge  and  statesman, 
even  the  iciest  aces  of  the  air — and  tell  the  story 
of  War,  a  tale  of  trenches,  kings  and  arms ;  blood, 
heroism  and  monstrous  greed;  vast  far-reaching 
[170] 


THE      ARTIST      UNLEASHED 

causes  and  the  slow,  inevitable  hell  of  effects — 
told  from  a  viewpoint  so  inclusive  that  thrones 
are  merely  pawns  in  a  Planetary  Game. 

Inclusion  is  the  first  business  of  the  writer  who 
is  truly  allied  with  the  modern  element.  Propa 
gandists  do  not  fill  the  picture.  Yesterday  the 
wreckers  and  agnostics — to-day  the  specialists  and 
onesided  enthusiasts — to-morrow,  the  embodiers, 
the  includers. 


C  i?i  J 


f"       ""^HE  Valley  Road  Girl,  who  gave  us  the 
title,  and  helped  us  to  see  how  the  New 
Race    will    become    in    due    time    the 
planetary  hive,  asked  not  to  appear  in 
this  book.     A  letter  this  morning  asks  it  again. 
She  is  in  the  stress  and  heat  of  a  series  of  ordeals, 
learning  what  it  means  suddenly  to  be  parted  from 
friends  and  the  centre  of  her  work.     A  wise  and 
sensitive  young  woman — I  rather  thrill  over  her 
sufferings.     We  don't  commiserate;  we  congrat 
ulate,  when  one  is  called  to  a  stretch  of  particu 
larly  stiff  and  solitary  going.     We  know  that  one 
must  be  passionately  worthy  to  take  the  big-cali- 
bred  ordeals.     There  is  pain  to  all  births — pain, 
the  precursor  of  greater  joys.     Pain  is  not  the  ex 
pansion  of  the  flower  to  the  sun;  that  is  joy,  that 
comes  afterward.    Pain  is  the  necessary  rupturing 
of  the  bud-sheaths  before  the  final  unfolding  into 
the  new  dimension.    Pain  is  within,  inarticulate — 
merely  finds  a  correspondence  in  some  outer  cause. 
Part  of  the  Valley  Road  Girl's  letter  follows: 
[172] 


VALLEY      ROAD      GIRL 


...  It  hurt  to  let  that  last  Lamentation  go  to 
you.  I  thought  of  the  times  when  I  had  put  up 
a  braver  fight,  bolstered  only  with  pride.  But 
pride  is  low  now,  and  still  dwindling  in  the  glass. 
Even  the  gods  withdraw  from  the  pathetic.  They 
love  us  more  when  we  challenge  with  doubt  than 
when  we  implore.  The  many  are  God-fearing. 
They  must  have  some  divine  power  to  shift  their 
responsibility  upon.  They  can  ask  the  Flame  to 
cleanse  them,  but  quail  at  working  out  their  own 
salvation.  I  have  done  some  crying  out  to  God, 
but  I  am  finished.  The  one  good  path  I  have  is 
Work — self-expression  every  day. 

I  made  another  mistake — in  looking  back.  Re 
gret  identifies  us  with  the  past  and  impedes  prog 
ress.  Youth  is  smileless,  inclined  to  regard  to 
day's  struggles  as  ultimate  evil,  but  gradually  we 
learn  that  all  things  pass.  To  consider  every 
thing  as  in  transition,  we  place  ourselves  in  the 
very  current  of  growth.  .  .  .  For  rapid  journey 
ing,  we  must  travel  light.  We  can  only  carry 
along  the  spirit  of  things — the  essence  of  our  joys 
and  lessons.  That's  what  I  have  from  Chapel 
days. 

I  blush  for  many  hours  since.  Sometimes  I 
have  felt  as  if  I  were  on  a  vast  plain  and  there  was 
no  God  nor  earth  nor  the  quality  of  love  any 
where,  but  only  I — deathless — in  long,  hideous 
travail,  all  life  to  be  tested  against  this  Me !  .  .  . 

How  I  want  to  write!     Every  day  more  awe 
enfolds  the  dream.     Days  bring  me  closer  to  the 
[173] 


THE      HIVE 

Town.  The  war  has  deepened  the  hearts  of  all 
the  young  people  here,  especially  the  women. 
Young  women  are  very  wonderful  to  me.  They 
have  a  certain  loveliness  of  body  that  comes 
of  girl-whiteness  within — thoughtful  tenderness 
about  them,  and  something  else,  a  lightness  that 
may  be  just  youth.  It  attracts  me  because  I 
have  never  felt  it. 

I  do  not  care  if  the  gods  laugh  at  my  ambitions 
to  write.  By  the  very  sign  that  we  are  victims 
of  matter  now,  we  shall  become  victors.  I  want 
the  bottom — down  among  the  deeps  of  pain, 
where  all  the  sorrow  of  the  world  is  my  sorrow; 
all  tears,  my  tears.  ...  I  am  not  ready  for  the 
Hive.  No  compromise.  To  accept  less  in  one's 
work  than  the  dream — that  is  failure. 

The  Valley  Road  Girl  is  eighteen.  She  has 
hardly  been  away  from  the  little  town  by  the  lake 
shore.  She  is  held  to  it  queerly  still.  I  expect 
her  to  make  the  place  long-lived  in  the  memory  of 
many  novel  readers.  I  see  the  big  book  of  the 
country-side  about  her — a  gallery  of  quaint  and 
curious  faces — done  with  her  stern,  sweet  power. 
I  have  seen  this  big  book  building  about  her,  as  I 
see  the  top  trays  of  The  Abbot's  Sea  Chest.  These 
are  the  days  of  her  sketching  and  tearing  down. 
Deep  draughts  of  life  call  to  her,  deeps  of  religion, 
deeps  of  cosmic  memory — and  all  about  is  the  lit 
tle  town.  The  meaning  has  come  to  her  at  last. 
Already  she  has  turned  to  love  the  nearest;  lov 
ing  the  nearest  will  unfold  the  big  book  and  set 
[174] 


VALLEY      ROAD     GIRL 

her  free.  Six  hundred  pages  I  call  for — the  leis 
urely  vibration,  terrible  intensity  of  romantic  mo 
ments,  passion  of  the  fields,  the  hideous  mockery 
of  narrow,  brittle  lives,  the  country-wife  worn 
glassy  with  routine  and  insane  monotony,  and  the 
young  of  the  countryside — quick  bloom,  pure 
youth  falling  into  coarseness  before  its  form  is 
finished,  the  real  and  immortal  behind  it  all. 
These  are  her  properties.  Hundreds  of  pages 
have  been  written  and  prayerfully  destroyed. 
Thus  is  she  setting  herself  free. 

I  have  a  paper  of  hers  on  the  spiritual  adven 
tures  of  a  smileless  child — which  I  liked  much 
when  it  came  in,  more  than  two  years  ago.  The 
Valley  Road  Girl  is  close  to  us  in  all  our  prepar 
ing  and  building;  so  that  these  chapters  would  be 
strange  without  her  voice: 

.  .  .  Fire  was  always  terrible,  so  my  first  as 
pirations  were  caused  by  fear  of  hell  below.  Be 
fore  that,  I  had  wanted  to  laugh  when  told  to 
pray.  As  I  grew,  I  thought  much  of  the  heavenly 
state,  but  could  find  only  vague  pictures.  Re 
cently  I  asked  a  country  minister  his  idea  of 
heaven,  and  he  seemed  uncertain.  He  could  only 
assure  me  that  it  was  a  desirable  place.  Yet  chil 
dren  always  wonder  about  their  destination,  ques 
tioning  as  they  journey. 

I  started  early  to  pray — a  grim  affair;  at  first 
crying  out  through  fear  or  hurt.  God  was  too 
awful  for  such  intimacies  so  I  took  the  Christ  fig- 
[175] 


THE      HIVE 

ure  of  the  Trinity  into  my  confidence.  Just  here 
came  a  strange  transition.  It  didn't  seem  suffi 
cient  for  me  to  think  those  prayers :  I  felt  I  must 
state  them  clearly  or  my  wish  might  be  ambigu 
ous.  Even  to-day,  I  find  that  only  expressing  a 
thing  simplifies  it  for  me. 

If  there  were  acquaintances  whose  lives  were 
touched  with  beauty  or  romance,  I  prayed  for 
them,  but  mostly  named  my  wants.  I  made  the 
discovery  that  the  intensity  put  forth  in  holding 
the  image  of  a  desire  brings  it  into  the  world. 
Man  may  call  the  answer  God,  but  that  seems  his 
own  power.  I  have  sometimes  thought  of  Will 
with  its  divine  kindred,  Wisdom  and  Love,  as  the 
Three  Who  stood  first  before  His  Face. 

To-day  we  dream,  and  to-morrow  our  hands 
are  filled.  I  remember  the  early  Chapel  days 
when  the  Old  Man  would  say,  "Be  careful  what 
you  want — you  are  apt  to  get  it," — with  a  great 
laugh  and  mystery  playing  about  his  words. 
How  truly  one  comes  to  realise  that.  When  I 
started  at  Stonestudy,  the  town-people  used  to  ask 
how  we  were  taught, — if  our  English  and  story- 
structure  were  principally  considered  as  in  the 
schools.  I  could  only  tell  them,  "Oh,  no,  not  like 
school!"  Then  I  tried  to  explain  Chapel  and 
they  wondered  how  that  manner  of  education 
could  make  us  writers.  Yet  our  writing  improved 
with  the  days.  Work,  a  few  weeks  old,  embar 
rassed  us  with  its  defects. 

Then  I  actually  tried  to  discover  just  how  we 
were  being  helped.  To  a  young  aspirant,  there  is 
[176] 


VALLEY     ROAD     GIRL 

awe  about  an  artist;  we  had  come  to  listen.  The 
same  thoughts  expressed  in  homely  words 
wouldn't  have  quickened  us.  The  Old  Man's 
sentences  were  rich  with  figures  that  clarified 
everything.  We  began  to  see  Stonestudy.  About 
this  time  at  home  I  used  to  start  anything  that  in 
terested  me,  "I've  got  a  picture "  Chapel  had 

helped  me,  as  only  one  can  help  another,  by  quick 
ening  the  imagination. 

That  was  what  drew  me  to  the  Little  Girl — 
her  vivid  impression  of  things.  She  could  make 
her  listener  see  also.  Speaking  of  children  whom 
school  had  overwhelmed,  she  used  to  tell  us  of 
their  "lacking  eyes"  and  the  world  that  had 
crushed  them,  as  the  "solid  world."  ...  I  think 
that  was  the  secret  of  her  faith  in  fairies  and  Na 
ture's  most  elusive  agencies.  I  listened  doubt 
fully  at  first,  for  school  had  tampered  with  my 
once-ready  belief.  One  had  first  to  trust  her 
words,  "If  you  believe,  you  will  see."  And  I  re 
called  my  early  religious  experiences,  based  on 
"According  to  your  faith,  be  it  unto  you." 

This  is  the  "really"  religion — faith  in  the  hid 
den  world.  We  conceive  its  light  gradually  as 
the  seed  pushes  its  way  upward  through  the  soil. 
All  religion  that  does  not  make  the  workshop  a 
Chapel — the  place  for  picturing  heaven,  is  less 
than  we  know.  I  seem  to  confuse  religion  with 
the  stimulating  of  the  imagination.  It  is  because 
they  are  one  to  me. 

The  Valley  Road  Girl  has  a  beautiful  sister 
who  was  rather  reluctant  to  come  to  Stonestudy. 
[177] 


THE      HIVE 

She  did  not  think  she  could  ever  belong;  had  no 
thought  ever  of  writing  or  taking  part  in  our 
things,  yet  none  of  the  young  people  ever  brought 
us  more  than  Esther.  I  found  the  following  pages 
about  these  two  sisters  together  among  the  writ 
ings  of  the  Little  Girl : 

.  .  .  On  the  floor  below  lived  two  girls  who 
came  often  to  visit  their  beloved  friends  in  the 
attic.  One  was  a  year  or  so  older  than  the  other, 
and  most  serious  and  sober,  constantly  hunting  for 
her  own  philosophy  and  making  her  own  religion, 
praying  for  power  and  vision,  fearing  lest  she  fail 
at  the  appointed  task,  suffering  over  conditions, 
revolting  at  times,  loving  her  work  and  her  sister 
with  an  everlasting  passion.  That  was  the  one 
whom  we  call  the  Valley  Road  Girl. 

The  other  was  a  perfect  giver,  born  with  the 
thought  of  her  own  smallness,  unwilling  to  accept 
a  different  point  of  view  on  the  subject  from 
another.  A  spirit — wide  eyes,  frail  body,  living 
her  life  calmly,  objecting  to  nothing,  obeying  oth 
ers,  loving  all,  frightening  her  parents  with  her 
absolute  goodness.  And  that  was  Esther. 

When  she  came  at  last  to  Stonestudy,  her  cush 
ion  with  the  others  round  the  fire  had  been  waiting 
for  many  months.  For  we  all  knew  her;  though 
the  Valley  Road  Girl  we  knew  Esther  belonged  to 
us.  One  Chapel  day  later,  when  she  remained 
at  home,  we  wondered  how  we'd  ever  manage 
without  her.  .  .  .  Occasionally  Esther  brought  a 
[178] 


VALLEY      ROAD      GIRL 

paper  with  her  and  laid  it  under  the  black  stone — 
a  bit  of  verse,  perhaps  a  dream,  or  something  deep 
and  mysterious  from  her  soul.  One  day  it  was  a 
picture  of  the  Desert,  I  remember.  .  .  .  Noonday, 
the  white  heat  of  the  sun  reflected  by  the  sand, 
the  brown  of  a  camel's  eyes,  the  long  road  to 
travel — caravans — then  night — the  sound  of  low 
music,  women  dancing,  the  red  of  fires  on  black 
oily  bodies  of  slaves.  .  .  .  Esther  made  us  see  it 
all. 

There  were  long  days  in  the  woods — spring 
quickening  life  in  all  things.  We'd  gather  moss 
and  violets  and  talk  endlessly,  Esther  always  so 
free  these  memorable  days,  and  happy.  It  was 
the  dance  that  set  her  free — her  expression  through 
the  dance — a  dancer's  body  and  soul,  her  wonder 
ful  quality  of  forgetfulness  of  self,  made  her 
perfect.  Literally  she  could  surrender  herself  to 
the  music,  trust  it,  and  be  carried  in  perfect  grace 
and  rhythm.  We  watched  her  unfold,  the  beauty 
of  her  deepening  in  every  way.  Her  joy  in  life 
grew.  She  became  like  a  nymph  in  the  pure  light 
of  summer.  .  .  . 

As  was  set  down  in  the  other  book,*  it  was  the 
Little  Girl  who  started  these  educational  pro 
ceedings.  Less  than  four  years  ago  I  suggested 
that  she  remain  home  from  school,  and  take  a 
stroll  with  me  down  the  Shore.  I  was  a  bit  bored 

*  Child  and  Country. 

[179] 


THE      HIVE 

at  the  time,  doubtless  heavy  with  the  sense  of 
parental  care.  To  my  best  knowledge,  the  Lit 
tle  Girl  was  in  no  way  extraordinary.  She  does 
not  seem  so  now.  It  seemed  natural  for  her  to 
turn  in  the  chapter  on  "Tom"  in  this  book.  I 
did  not  think  of  it  as  a  brimming  thing  for  a  child 
to  perform.  Incidentally  Steve  brought  in  an  es 
say  last  night  on  the  young  lovers  and  beauty 
lovers  of  the  New  Race,  covering  matters  which 
I  planned  as  necessary  for  me  to  do  in  this  book. 
Weaving,  that's  really  what  a  book  from  the 
group  amounts  to — weaving,  more  and  more. 
From  time  to  time  in  years  to  come,  I  hope  to  take 
a  few  weeks  and  spin  a  book. 

It  is  only  in  matters  having  to  do  with  actual 
world-facts  that  the  Little  Girl  ever  reminds  us 
that  she  is  only  finishing  her  second  period  of  sev 
ens.  There  is  no  one  to  whom  I  go  more  often 
for  wisdom  or  consolation.  Her  comradeship  is 
complete.  Others  forget  the  matter  of  age  in  re 
lation  to  her.  Her  big  friendship  with  the  Val 
ley  Road  Girl  overrides  four  years  of  growth  most 
formidable  in  the  usual  attachment.  The  soul  is 
out  of  time  and  space.  The  same  thing  is  more 
emphatically  shown  in  the  case  of  John  and  The 
Abbot — nine  and  seventeen. 

The  Little  Girl  reads  very  little — not  nearly 
so  much  as  I  do.  She  carries  no  weights.  The 
slightest  tendency  toward  precocity  would  sicken 
[180] 


VALLEY      ROAD      GIRL 

me  of  the  whole  business.  This  growth  and  de 
velopment  which  I  speak  of  is  not  intellectual  in 
the  acquisitive  sense.  I  take  the  young  minds 
away  from  long  division  examples.  One  of  those 
a  day  is  plenty.  Excessive  use  of  the  young  brain 
is  dangerous.  One  should  handle  brain-tissue  with 
delicacy.  One  should  learn  well  how  to  think, 
so  as  to  escape  lesion  and  avoid  rupture  of  those 
most  delicate  fibres.  Any  strain  sounds  a  warn 
ing.  The  use  and  development  of  the  brain  from 
outside  is  only  safe  so  long  as  the  process  is  joy 
ous.  The  development  of  the  brain  from  within 
is  natural  and  continually  felicitous.  No  two 
processes  are  alike — for  the  Soul  perfects  the  in 
strument  to  serve  Itself.  In  due  time  the  brain, 
thus  trained,  will  bring  forth  the  one  perfect  and 
inimitable  product.  Trained  by  the  world  solely 
from  without,  its  product  is  a  mere  standard  at 
best. 

I  have  met  absolutely  no  ill  results,  not  even 
from  the  gentle  encouragement  of  the  practice  of 
concentration  among  children.  This  is  stiff 
brainwork  for  a  time — stiff  because  the  brain  must 
be  mastered.  But  the  brain  that  has  learned  to 
listen  for  the  voice  of  the  Master  within,  is  al 
ready  using  the  fruits  of  concentration,  and  as  I 
have  written  before,  the  children  master  the  dis 
tractions  more  easily  than  developed  personali 
ties.  One  must  learn  how  to  think  obediently 
[181] 


THE      HIVE 

before  one  can  silence  the  thoughts.  One  must 
silence  the  brain  to  hear  the  Soul,  but  one  must  be 
the  Soul  to  silence  the  brain. 

Intellectual  children  have  been  brought  to  me 
several  times.  They  lack  the  essential  reverence. 
They  wish  to  show  me  what  they  know ;  their  par 
ents  goad  them  into  this  showing.  These  are  not 
the  new  race  type  that  thrills  us.  ...  I  cannot 
help  you  out  of  a  predicament  if  my  hands  are 
full  of  bundles.  I  cannot  bring  to  you  the  one 
spontaneous  utterance  that  you  long  for,  if  my 
brain  is  crowded  with  the  things  of  to-day  and 
yesterday.  I  place  upon  the  ground  my  bundles, 
and  give  you  a  hand.  I  clear  my  mind  of  all  its 
recent  and  immediate  acquisitions,  and  by  the  very 
force  and  matrix  of  your  need  (if  I  am  the  valu 
able  teacher)  I  supply,  from  the  infinite  reservoir 
of  massed  experiences,  an  intuitional  answer  that 
will  not  leave  you  as  you  were. 

.  .  .  God  pity  the  good  little  brain-pans  so 
heavily  piled  in  public  schools,  and  the  brave  lit 
tle  memories  so  cruelly  taxed.  I  want  to  brush 
all  junk  away  from  them,  let  their  souls  breathe, 
let  them  become  as  little  children,  show  them  how 
the  greatest  workmen  and  the  master-thinkers  are 
great  and  masterful,  simply  because  they  have 
learned  how  to  become  as  little  children. 


[182] 


1? 

BEAUTY 


E  develop ,  through  expression.  I 
find  these  paragraphs  among  many 
of  the  Little  Girl's  for  which  there 
is  no  place  here : 

.  .  .  Everything  in  pouring  out  one's  dreams 
and  thoughts,  one's  very  soul  into  words!  It  is 
relief,  fulfilment;  it  completes  all  thoughts  and 
dreams;  it  gives  them  strength.  They  are  only 
half-powers  if  left  unexpressed.  In  the  moments 
of  great  outpouring,  order  forms — the  inner  or 
der  that  is  lasting  and  divine,  the  order  that  every 
man  must  have  running  rhythmically  through 
him,  before  his  great  task  can  be  given  him  by  the 
Master.  If  man  lives  in  truth,  he  lives  in  order. 
There  is  no  truth  without  order — no  order  with 
out  truth.  They  are  one  at  the  top.  There  are 
no  mistakes  in  all  the  Holy  Universe. 

We  speak  much  of  the  Master.     As  every  ar 
tist  becomes  significant,  I  think  he  is  more  and 
[183] 


THE      HIVE 

more  conscious,  deep  within,  of  the  presence  of 
one  whose  word  is  absolute.  The'  great  artist 
isolates  himself  from  criticism — that  is,  he  may 
listen  to  the  observations  of  a  child  or  the  young 
est  critic  and  find  values,  yet  his  life  is  passed 
in  doing  things  others  cannot  do,  and  for  which 
there  are  no  criteria.  He  loses  the  sense  of  all  laws 
at  the  last,  in  the  great  ebullition  of  his  soul — 
to  get  its  records  down.  He  is  not  ignited  with 
expression  as  formerly,  because  he  is  expression. 
His  establishment  in  flesh  is  for  that,  and  no 
other  reason.  His  Master  nears.  I  think  of  Tol 
stoi  so  intimately  and  Carlyle  in  these  things.  .  .  . 
We  are  close,  in  our  best  moments,  to  the  Shop 
Itself.  Kipling  touched  this  mystic  arrangement 
in  his  inimitable  L'envoi,  "When  earth's  last  pic 
ture  is  painted " 

More  and  more  life  teaches  us  the  treachery  of 
matter,  as  it  teaches  us  how  to  love.  One  by  one 
the  things  we  turn  to,  vanish,  leaving  us  rent  and 
crying  out.  Thus  we  learn  to  turn  to  the  Un 
seen.  We  long  at  last  for  our  particular  arche 
type  who  embodies  potentially  the  ideal  of  parent 
and  teacher  and  beloved.  The  last  tearing  tor 
rential  love  of  the  flesh  is  for  the  mate,  the  first 
of  our  more  purely  spiritual  aspirations  for  the 
Master.  .  .  .  The  good  days  of  apprenticeship 
give  us  the  basic  ideal  of  him — the  pure  work 
manship,  the  love  of  truth,  need  for  utter  com 
prehension  with  few  words — the  love  of  one 
[184] 


BEAUTY 

another,  yet  the  absolute  essential  so  hard  to  learn, 
to  cling  to  nothing  in  the  realm  of  change — all 
these  are  incentives  to  the  quest  of  the  Master. 
More  and  more  we  succeed  in  turning  our  love  to 
what  we  still  call  the  Unseen  from  old  habit.  The 
very  love  that  you  turn  to  the  Master  builds  the 
path  by  which  he  comes  to  you.  He  can  only 
appear  in  your  own  thought-form.  .  .  . 

It  comes  to  us  so  often  that  we  make  our  own 
heavens.  So  many  forget  that  we  require  beauty 
as  well  as  goodness  and  truth.  Not  sages  alone, 
not  saints  alone — but  artists,  workmen  and  play 
ers  in  beauty,  as  well  as  in  love  and  wisdom. 
The  Master  will  come  to  you  in  your  own  thought- 
form;  your  heaven  will  fill  your  own  conception. 
Saints  of  the  elder  bigotries  will  have  angels  with 
feathers  and  peasant  feet.  Those  who  have  clung 
so  hard  to  their  bodies,  must  galvanise  them  again 
with  rheumatism  and  senility  and  mortgage-rid 
den  minds. 

I  tell  them  here  to  be  careful  what  they  dream 
— to  take  all  the  loves,  the  safe  things,  love  of 
child  and  mother  and  mate,  love  of  comrades, 
the  passion  for  dying  for  another  ...  to  take 
Nature's  perfect  things, — the  grains,  the  fruits, 
bees,  stars,  devas,  poems — majesty  of  mountain, 
strength  of  the  field,  holy  breath  of  sea — the 
highest  moments  of  song  and  thought  and  meet 
ings  ...  to  take  all  that  is  consummate  for  the 
thought-form — to  build  the  coming  of  the  Mas- 
[185] 


THE     HIVE 

ter  in  that — light  from  the  Unseen — to  build 
for  eternity.  .  .  .  The  Master  can  only  show  you 
that  much  of  Himself  as  your  own  highest  picture 
contains.  .  .  .  This  is  the  practice  of  his  pres 
ence,  so  liberating  to  the  minds  of  dreamers  and 
workmen  and  mothers. 

Steve  has  done  some  thinking  on  the  quest  of 
beauty  in  relation  to  the  young  lovers  of  the 
New  Race.  The  rest  of  the  chapter  is  his  writ 
ing: 

Beauty  is  the  lustre  shining  from  within,  be 
cause  of  the  sheer  intensity  of  being.  It  is  proof 
of  spiritual  battles  won,  a  gift  earned  by  ages  of 
renunciation,  martyrdom,  and  self-sacrifice.  It  is 
manifest  balance,  order  and  serenity  gained  from 
isolation  and  self-conquest.  The  glow  seen  about 
the  heads  of  saints  is  really  there.  It  is  a  splen 
dour  not  of  earth,  the  same  ray  from  which  beauty 
is  drawn. 

A  certain  tragic  joy  and  a  terrible  serenity,  that 
is  mistaken  for  melancholy,  often  goes  with 
beauty.  It  is  the  result  of  turning  back  volun 
tarily  for  work  in  the  world,  renouncing  possible 
bliss  for  the  service  of  humanity.  Chief  among 
the  spiritual  victories  mentioned,  is  this  turning 
back,  facing  the  stream  of  evolution  again,  and 
all  its  cold  metal,  for  new  work.  So  its  light  is 
a  light  from  behind — a  reflection  to  the  world  of 
the  wonders  ahead. 

Beauty  is  an  indication  of  the  weave  of  one's 
[186] 


BEAUTY 

higher  life,  of  developed  discrimination,  material 
proof  of  the  perfecting  ordination  of  the  life,  will 
and  emotions.  All  that  is  beautiful  is  good,  all 
that  is  good  must  be  beautiful.  Ugliness  is  false 
and  fleeting,  a  confession  of  sickness  and  turmoil 
within.  There  can  absolutely  be  no  great  love 
without  a  sheer  worship  of  beauty,  not  for  itself, 
not  from  the  aesthetic  standpoint — no  tempera 
mental  moth-man  ethics — but  the  calm  mastery 
of  its  inner  meaning,  which  is  mastery  of  life  it 
self. 

This  does  not  mean  that  we  must  love  things 
merely  because  they  are  beautiful,  but  because  of 
the  truth  we  know  to  be  in  them,  manifest  in  their 
beauty.  Also  it  means  that  we  must  never  accept 
a  thing  merely  because  it  is  demonstrated,  or  seek 
truth  for  truth's  sake.  Beauty  is  the  one  lasting 
criterion. 

As  soon  as  we  truly  see  these  things,  we  know 
the  secret  of  real  love,  which  is  beauty's  expres 
sion.  The  lover  is  no  longer  lover  only,  but  love- 
master — all  domination  of  the  sexes  then  becomes 
a  slavery  of  the  past.  The  lover  is  parent, 
mate  and  child  in  one.  Each  is  also  the  other's 
teacher. 

At  the  beginning  these  lovers  give  each  other 
complete  freedom,  knowing  that  nothing  can  be 
maintained  that  is  held;  that  joyous  freedom  is  its 
own  wise  bondage.  The  finding  of  the  lover  is 
never  the  end  of  the  quest  as  in  the  world. 
Rather,  it  is  the  beginning.  Never  is  there  a  ly 
ing  back  in  satisfaction  or  inconsequence.  That 
[187] 


THE      HIVE 

would  be  failure  for  themselves  as  well  as  their 
children.  Growth  is  the  goal.  Growth  goes  on 
after  the  mating  at  a  rate  never  before  approached, 
for  each  has  been  opened,  liberated.  Every  re 
lation  is  evident  alternately  in  this  growth,  par 
ent  and  child,  teacher  and  pupil,  master  and 
disciple,  madonna  and  messiah.  At  certain  high 
moments,  the  other  appears  as  the  Master  himself; 
through  his  eyes  the  mysteries  of  the  universe  are 
seen. 

The  three-ply  love  yearns  to  give,  knowing  that 
by  giving  all  one  gains  all.  It  yearns  to  protect, 
to  mother,  to  love  failings  and  make  them  vir 
tues.  It  loves  the  failings  as  well  as  the  gifts, 
treasuring  all  the  little  humanesses  of  the  loved 
one,  searching  them  out  zealously.  Never  are 
they  foolish  enough  to  expect  perfection  at  first. 
Every  fault  is  told  point-blank,  at  any  cost  of 
pain  or  injury  to  the  other.  For  it  is  the  god- 
given  privilege  of  each  to  bring  suffering  to  the 
other,  because  he  loves  that  other  more  than  life, 
more  than  self,  more  than  happiness,  and  it  is  un 
derstood  that  their  mutual  goal  is  the  priceless 
heritage,  perfection.  Nothing  short  of  perfec 
tion  remains.  For  this  all  else,  even  life,  is 
a  paltry  price.  There  is  no  hiding  the  truth. 
This  is  the  supreme  test  for  great  loves,  great 
friendships.  Both  mates  are  equal.  Equal 
ity — the  word  comes  to  mean  more  than  wor 
ship. 

This  philosophy  is  justified  by  the  law  of  sac 
rifice.  That  which  we  love  more  than  life  is  ours 
more  wholly  than  ourselves,  by  the  great  law. 

r  188] 


BEAUTY 

In  fact,  we  cannot  belong  to  ourselves;  we  must 
work  upon  ourselves  until  we  are  big  enough  to 
cast  body  mind  and  soul  in  the  heart  of  another, 
without  fear.  Separateness — the  pitiful  sense  oi 
self,  has  long  been  the  prime  illusion  of  the  world, 
the  cause  of  all  lust,  wars  and  torments.  Those 
who  are  not  great  enough  lovers  to  surrender  all 
to  their  love  find  pain  and  disparity  throughout. 
They  have  yet  to  learn  that  all  that  belongs  to  the 
self-willed,  only  half  belongs,  for  it  has  not  been 
given  its  freedom. 

In  loves  such  as  the  New  Age  is  bringing  in, 
true  creativeness  is  touched.  In  worshipping 
both  the  soul  of  her  child  and  that  of  her  mate 
more  than  her  own,  the  mother  is  given  for  the 
moment  a  beam  from  the  divine  shaft  from  the 
Creator.  For  that  moment  she  has  over-reached 
herself.  Just  so  is  the  new  love  constantly  over 
reaching  itself  in  the  cause  of  the  loved  one,  a  di 
vine  madness  the  world  has  not  begun  to  dream 
of — to  belong  and  to  have,  to  be  in  and  through 
and  around  the  loved  one.  Thus  to  over-reach  is 
to  create.  The  ordinary  one  must  become  ex 
traordinary  when  loved  in  this  god-like  manner. 
To  over-reach  oneself — that  is  the  cry  of  the 
New !  .  .  .  To  think  or  act  in  any  way  that  will 
hurt  the  self  becomes  impossible  then,  for  the  self 
is  truly  become  the  other  lover. 

Blindness  of  passion  is  far  from  the  nature  of 

things  in  the  new  loves.     Or  rather  such  passions 

have  been  washed  and  redeemed  until  they  are 

self-governing.     There     is     all     the     difference 

[189] 


THE      HIVE 

between  them  and  the  world  idea  of  passion,  as 
between  adoration  and  infatuation.  Deep  wa 
ters  and  deep  characters  hold  to  their  channels. 
Only  shallow  and  frothy  currents  are  loud  and 
turbulent.  .  .  .  Again  it  is  the  three  in  one. 
How  could  one  hold  a  mad  destroying  passion  for 
one  in  whom  the  parent  child  and  master  are 
equally  dominant"?  Always  the  spirit  of  tender 
ness  is  there  like  an  unseen  third.  Thus  passion 
has  become  compassion,  and  the  earth  love  is  seen 
truly  for  the  first  time  partaking  of  the  nature 
of  the  infinite  love  which  holds  the  universe  to 
gether.  This  is  the  source  of  calm,  of  will-less- 
ness. 

The  elder  generation,  judging  all  things 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  self  will,  is  dumb 
founded.  Such  iron  repression  among  children  is 
beyond  its  imagination.  The  elder  generation 
goes  on  living  sharkish  and  predatory  lives,  ex 
perimenting  with  repression  after  too  much  get 
ting  and  taking  and  licentiousness.  It  concen 
trates  terribly  on  repression,  throwing  up  about 
itself  temporary  breastworks,  developing  cruel  red 
rays  of  personal  will  which  at  best  is  but  a  defiant 
pugnacity.  Its  eyes  grow  red  and  voice  savage. 
For  the  time  the  gargoyles  of  the  ancient  self  are 
locked  in  the  lower  room,  but  they  are  not  mas 
tered.  All  personal  will  is  but  a  confession  of  in- 
ordiriation  within.  Where  there  is  inner  order 
and  beauty,  it  is  not  needed,  becomes  indeed  an 
affront  to  the  most  high. 

The  beautiful  will-lessness  which  marks  the  re- 
[190] 


BEAUTY 


lation  of  the  sexes  of  the  New  Order  is  the  key 
to  the  freedom  of  the  future.  Tiger  and  ape  are 
transformed  into  white  presences — the  mutinous 
slaves  of  the  earth-self  become  cosmic  servants. 


i8 
SHUK 


I  WAS  talking  to  a  group  of  young  artists 
in  Chicago.     There  was  a  boy  there  who 
seemed  disturbed  because  the  others  dared 
to  be  natural  in  my  presence,  ^nd  talk  about 
themselves.    I  was  quite  at  ease,  enjoying  myself, 
and  getting  altogether  as  much  respect  as  I  de 
served.  .  .  .  This   lad   walked   with  me   to  the 
train.     I  wanted  to  take  him  home.     I  liked  his 
voice  and  his  hand  and  his  mind.     I  thought  at 
first  that  he  could  not  mean  all  he  said,  but  I  was 
wrong  about  that.     Reverence  is  sometimes  very 
hard  to  take,  but  the  one  who  brings  it  has  the 
pure  surface  of  receptivity.    The  joy  said,  as  my 
train  pulled  out: 

"No,  I  can't  come  now.     There's  a  month  to 
be  spent  at  home  in  Michigan,  and  a  season's  play 
ing  with  an  orchestra  up  in  the  lake  resorts,  but 
after  that — say  October,  I'll  come  to  Stonestudy." 
That  was  exactly  what  he  did.     He  had  it 
[192] 


S  H  U  K 

all  planned  months  ahead.  It's  Shuk's*  way — a 
mathematical  mind,  a  crystal  mind.  The  theoso- 
phists  would  say  that  he  belonged  to  the  intel 
lectual  ray.  .  .  .  We  are  always  better  with  Shuk 
in  the  room.  He  comes  half  way  to  meet  our 
process  of  lighting  up,  which  is  the  devotional 
process;  in  fact,  Shuk  incorporated  himself  in  our 
ideals  in  exchange  for  a  year  or  two  of  living  the 
life  at  Stonestudy.  .  .  .  These  things  never  die. 

A  raincoat,  a  black  bag — these  are  Shuk's  pos 
sessions,  all  weight  and  measure  minimised,  even 
to  the  kind  of  white  paper  which  wears  best  and 
packs  best.  Shuk  means  order.  A  page  of  his 
"copy"  is  a  rest  to  the  eye.  There  is  a  finished 
quality  to  his  sentences.  My  tendency  is  to  rush 
into  a  mental  clean-up  when  he  enters  the  room. 
I'm  not  impressing  these  details  as  his  virtues. 
Shuk's  virtues  are  cosmic.  He  will  presently  be 
telling  the  big  tales,  and  telling  them  fast. 

As  a  group,  we  are  learning  to  come  and  go 
from  each  other.  We  have  learned  well  "not  to 
lean — rather  to  anticipate  the  Law  and  leave  the 
beloved  when  the  tendency  to  cling  becomes  too 
keen.  .  .  .  There  is  a  time  to  come  and  a  time  to 
go.  I  always  think  of  the  Master  Jesus,  leaving 
His  disciples — saying  that  they  would  not  find 
the  Comforter  within,  if  He  remained  with  them 
always. 

Shuk  had  much  to  do  in  bringing  home  to  us 

*  Herman  S.  Schuchert. 

[193] 


THE      HIVE 

this  valuable  concept.  We  had  a  way  of  thinking 
the  world  would  come  to  us  on  the  Lake  Erie  bluff. 
It  would.  It  did.  But  we  were  getting  fat  and 
baronial ;  a  bit  fat  of  brain,  perhaps.  .  .  .  Better 
than  that,  the  gaunt,  lean  face  forever  at  the 
window-panes  of  civilisation.  .  .  .  Comrades  are 
always  together.  Big  meetings,  easy  partings.  One 
does  not  know  how  close  he  is  to  another,  until 
their  thoughts  spark  warm  over  a  lot  of  mileage 
— the  immortality  of  it  all  stealing  in  through 
the  soft  airs  of  night,  perhaps. 

I  teach  the  young  ones  to  stand  alone  at  every 
chance.  The  idea  is  to  make  them  penetrate  for 
themselves,  as  swiftly  as  possible,  the  main  tricks 
and  illusions  of  matter;  to  make  them  see  past 
any  doubt  that  to  be  worldly-minded  is  to  be  in 
ferior.  Still  they  must  see  this  for  themselves.  I 
formally  renounced  parentage  in  the  case  of  the 
Little  Girl.  I  take  all  my  authority  from  the 
younger  boys  at  frequent  intervals — especially 
when  they  have  been  real  mates : 

"Don't  advise  with  me,"  I  tell  them.  "Show 
what  you  know  about  living.  .  .  .  Do  it  your 
way.  If  you  begin  to  botch  it,  I'll  come  in  and  be 
a  regular  parent  again,  but  the  idea  is  to  set  you 
loose." 

These  matters  come  out  naturally  in  relation 

to  Shuk.     He'll  be  surprised  to  read  this.     None 

of  the  young  ones  ever  adequately  credit  the  fact 

that  I  do  a  lot  of  sitting  at  their  feet.  .  .  .  We 

[194] 


S  H  U  K 

could  see  the  world  as  one  piece  better  with  Shuk 
in  the  room.  His  intense  listening  pulled  my 
eyes  constantly.  He  wanted  to  know  about  sto 
ries — about  writing  stories.  His  presence  made 
us  all  better  workmen  because  he  was  so  zealous 
to  become  one.  I  had  long  been  absorbed  in  the 
romantic  side  of  world-politics,  but  Shuk  dec 
orated  the  subject  with  a  new  romance.  .  .  .  The 
farther  away  a  country  is,  the  more  we  know  about 
it  from  a  fiction  standpoint.  His  mental  forms 
are  very  strong.  Shuk  and  I  have  practically 
covered  the  same  run  of  thoughts  in  a  morning's 
work — our  machines  a  mile  apart — no  prearrange- 
ment.  But  this  has  worked  out  so  often  as  to  cease 
to  be  a  novelty.  The  Little  Girl's  letters  have 
often  crossed  with  mine,  carrying  the  same 
spiritual  unfoldment — a  four  days'  journey  dis 
tant.  .  .  . 

Another  realisation  related  with  Shuk's  coming, 
is  that  I  do  not  belong  as  the  master  of  a  school 
in  the  economic  sense.  There  was  much  detail 
at  Stonestudy,  much  householder's  management 
required.  I  wouldn't  have  given  it  up,  if  I  had 
been  unable  to  do  that  part,  but  it  was  a  waste  of 
force — wretched  economy  for  me  to  take  charge 
of  such  affairs.  We  plan  to  support  ourselves,  but 
I  cannot  run  a  school,  apportion  tasks,  or  puzzle 
devotedly  among  the  meshes  of  finance.  This 
part  of  the  work  in  California  will  doubtless  be 
taken  care  of  by  those  who  do  it  well  and  profit- 
T  19.?  ] 


THE      HIVE 

ably.  There  have  been  moments  when  I  wanted 
to  go  among  all  the  schools — happen  in,  stay  an 
hour  or  a  week — until  the  children  and  teachers 
forgot  me,  so  I  could  find  my  own  among  the 
many.  .  .  .  But  again  it  occurs  to  me  that  wiser 
plans  than  mine  are  behind  it  all.  Those  who 
are  ready,  come;  numbers  will  take  care  of  them 
selves;  all  we  need  to  do  is  to  make  the  most  of 
the  nearest,  and  keep  up  our  song  in  such  accord 
as  we  can  in  the  midst  of  the  world's  sacrificial 
madness — many  girls'  voices  now,  for  the  war 
has  plucked  the  boys.  .  .  . 

Some  of  the  things  of  Shuk's  which  I  chose  for 
this  book  were  about  the  big  war  and  are  not 
profitable  discussions  now,  but  with  his  paper  in 
cluded  in  an  earlier  chapter,  and  one  or  two  small 
things  here,  his  quality  can  be  seen.  This  is  a 
letter  to  the  Old  Man : 

...  I  haven't  ceased  to  follow  the  Wars.  Big 
one  inside.  Tremendous  flights,  dizzy  careenings, 
impossible  falls.  Am  tramping  noisily  through 
the  forbidden  garden  of  Books.  Am  becoming 
more  and  more  vividly  aware  of  Life,  above 
actuality,  beyond  sorrow,  interior  to  joy.  Vital 
and  thrilling  peace  to  all  your  endeavours.  .  .  . 
Enclosed  a  paragraph  or  two  on  tallying  off  the 
world-war  within,  with  the  world-war  without: 

Evil  is  stupid  mixing  of  good  things  into  in- 
harmony.  Evil  is  simply  ignorance.  Ignorance 
does  not  fade  away,  but  must  be  worked  out,  worn 
[196] 


S  H  U  K 

down.  War  is  evil  in  this  process.  Man's 
higher  nature  is  naturally  at  war  with  ignorance, 
manifesting  in  his  lower  nature.  If  man  had 
always  kept  at  this  war  against  the  domination  of 
the  lower  self,  he  would  never  have  needed  another 
'war  to  jar  and  jog  him  along.  But  man  decided, 
in  ignorance,  that  he  had  no  cause  for  war  with 
the  lower  self.  This  was  his  first  illusion.  The 
next  mistake  was  natural.  Man  thought  he  would 
get  rid  of  evil  by  killing  off  the  lower  selves  of 
other  men.  All  due  to  his  first  error  in  looking 
outside  instead  of  in. 

It's  all  wrong  to  think  we  must  leave  our 
own  houses  in  order  to  fight  the  greatest  battles 
conceivable.  If  we  do  not  accept  the  fight  within 
ourselves,  we  shall  certainly  have  the  same  fight, 
once  or  twice  removed,  forced  upon  us.  ... 

Whatever  portion  of  humankind  is  chastened 
and  quickened  by  this  big  field-war  and  sea-war, 
is  the  first  fruits  of  a  nobler  race.  Man  has  had 
countless  and  continuous  opportunities  of  doing 
this  purifying  process  to  himself  in  privacy  and 
peace;  instead,  he  has  consistently,  with  rarest 
exceptions,  used  his  will  to  serve  the  lesser  self, 
or  deal  with  the  lesser  selves  of  other  men.  Now, 
in  these  years,  every  man  who  failed,  will  learn 
the  lesson,  because  it  will  be  forced  upon  him. 
If  our  wisdom  is  not  so  great  and  old  as  we 
hope,  if  we  have  in  the  long  past  thrown  away 
our  chances,  then  we  shall  surely  go  out  and  fare 
as  the  others  fare  now — in  exactly  the  right  pro 
portion. 

[197] 


THE      HIVE 

Killing  another  doesn't  work  as  a  means  of  self- 
correction.  Hereafter,  I'm  interested  in  correct 
ing  myself.  There  is  very  little  outside  work  left 
to  do.  This  is  a  commonplace,  of  course,  yet  it 
reminds  me  that  the  highest  wisdom  is  something 
grandly  simple  and  easy.  Murder  is  an  ag 
gravated  waste  of  both  time  and  opportunity. 

Yet  I  am  at  peace  with  nobody,  not  even  my 
self.  Peace  ought  to  be  more  intense  than  war, 
and  until  it  is,  we  shall  have  to  go  through  many 
wars  to  arrive  at  any  kind  of  peace.  Many  slav 
eries  is  the  price  of  freedom. 

One  who  fears  will  be  brought  up  facing  mon 
ster  fears,  until  he  learns  next  time  that  his  per 
sonal  fears  were  too  petty  to  mention.  One  who 
has  greed  and  envy  will  surely  be  made  a  pawn  in 
a  game  of  greed  so  colossal  that  perhaps,  in  a  fu 
ture  time,  he  will  have  no  interest  in  neighbour 
hood  greeds,  but  will  have  learned  to  see  and  to 
desire  the  whole  world.  His  greed  has  been 
stretched  into  a  passion  for  dominion;  and  the 
most  fascinating  field  for  empire  he  will  discover 
within  himself. 

So  wherever  we  stand,  we  can't  lose  out.  We 
can  choose  to  do  good,  better,  best — but  without 
choosing,  nothing  less  than  all  right  can  happen. 

The  brighter  facts  are  that  all  these  warring 
energies,  whether  of  men  or  ordnance,  are  the  force 
of  one  God,  energies  working  out  of  the  muddles 
men  made.  Man  has  disturbed  the  balance. 
Man  now  makes  a  sacrifice  in  order  to  restore 
equilibrium,  to  release  the  powers  he  misused. 
[198] 


S  H  U  K 

The  greatest  conceivable  struggle  must  sooner 
or  later  come  between  the  higher  and  lower  na 
ture  of  every  living  thing.  Man  is  now  prepar 
ing  himself,  collectively  and  individually,  for  this 
final  conquest.  His  prime  illusion  seized  him 
when  he  turned  away  from  his  own  faults,  to  cor 
rect  the  faults  of  his  brother.  The  secondary 
illusion  is  that  the  brother  will  not  be  able  to  care 
for  his  own  faults.  The  third  is  that  we  must  help 
our  brother  correct  himself.  The  fourth  is  that  if 
he  won't  do  it  himself,  in  the  way  we  say,  we  will 
do  it  for  him. 

The  world  (and  this  means  me)  is  just  learning 
the  rudiments  of  war,  just  finding  out  how  much 
vitality  man  has,  how  much  courage,  the  stupid 
ity  of  all  fear,  the  size  of  the  globe,  the  depth  and 
possibilities  of  the  elements,  including  the  human 
soul ;  is  perceiving  more  of  life  and  accepting  in- 
tenser  vibrations  than  ever  before  on  this  terra. 
All  this  knowledge  will  go  into  the  True  Peace 
some  day.  But  in  these  nearby  years,  men  are 
prayerfully  eager  to  get  back  "home,"  where  all 
these  godly  lessons  may  be  forgotten. 

Real  War  will  positively  show  man  that  he 
must  remember  what  he  is  taught.  When  he 
comes  "home,"  he  will  enlist  immediately  in  the 
interior  struggle  with  his  lower  self.  His  war 
with  other  men  will  train  him  to  fight  with  the 
greatest  enemy  on  earth,  his  own  ignorance. 

I  have  already  enlisted  in  this  big  war.  My 
first  victory  was  in  seizing  the  fact  that  the  world 
is  me  and  I  am  the  world  and  nothing  to  the  con- 
[199] 


THE      HIVE 

trary.  The  universe  rises  and  falls  with  me,  sub 
jectively.  The  goal  is  to  make  it — objectively. 

I  am  locked  with  impatience  these  days. 

After  that,  comes  fear. 

I  may  go  to  the  red  fields  to  learn  the  nonsense 
about  fear.  Of  course  I  can  theorise  it  now  per 
fectly,  and  practise  it  at  periods.  But  I  want  it 
steadily,  the  non-wobbling  wisdom.  Already  I 
have  conquered  some  fatuousness  in  myself.  Out 
of  my  jubilation  I  write  to  you.  ...  Of  course, 
the  Many  is  not  a  model  to  follow.  The  "Many" 
is  a  picture  in  every  man's  mind,  composed 
of  the  inferior  things  that  all  other  men  do. 
.  .  .  Inclusion — intensity — love — creativeness — 
these  Stonestudy  precepts  contain  all  the  story. 
They  are  certainly  the  way  out  and  up  and  over 
into  Life. 

Shuk  has  done  a  little  sketch  or  two  on  the 
big  Romance  of  the  new  social  order: 

Humour,  universality,  the  highest  good  will, 
he  writes,  are  the  symbols  that  flame  from  the 
temple  of  the  New  Race.  .  .  .  Everywhere  ap 
pear  children  of  the  renovating,  re-vitalising,  more 
cosmic  tribe.  They  are  easily  recognised.  The 
hope  of  a  full  and  decent  future  is  with  them. 

They  will  do  little  according  to  their  immedi 
ate  predecessors,  and  much  by  an  inner  light  of 
their  own.  Being  wise  and  simple  and  not  de 
structive,  they  will  gratefully  accept  all  that  has 
proven  true  for  earlier  peoples.  But  they  will  in- 
[200] 


S  H  U  K 

stinctively  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  tra 
ditions  based  on  three-score-and-ten,  or  any  other 
of  the  unfortunately  solid  viewpoints  that  frost 
the  world  to-day. 

They  love  the  world,  have  come  to  claim  it 
whole,  to  reclaim  it  from  deluded  ancestors  who 
were  solemnly,  from  birth,  bent  upon  deeding  and 
selling  and  stealing  and  fencing  in  bits  of  the 
planet's  surface.  Forerunners  of  this  happier  race 
have  shown  themselves  to  be  masters  of  materials, 
true  workmen  in  the  solid  stuffs ;  but  by  their  sense 
of  humour  they  are  saved  from  any  impulse  to 
seize  and  sit  upon  fragments  of  earth. 

These  new  ones  are  born  with  an  urge  towards 
unity.  Their  task,  to  set  the  world  in  order. 
Their  means,  not  so  much  a  rearrangement  of  ob 
jects  as  a  very  intense  activity  along  the  roads  of 
Beauty  and  Truth,  in  a  co-operation  unstudied 
and  normal  with  the  rest  of  mankind  and  with 
the  Igniting  Principle. 

It  may  be  observed  that  Beauty  and  Truth 
are  too  vague  to  produce  effective  action  in  a  solid 
world.  This  is  invariably  a  saying  of  the  mate 
rial-minded,  however  virtuous  they  may  be.  It  is 
they  who  loudly  demand  a  dull  utility  over  and 
above  Beauty,  and  apart  from  it.  It  is  they  who 
have  agglomerated  the  chaos  that  is  in  this  hour 
threshing  about  in  dust  and  blood.  Their  sober 
iniquities  are  the  fertiliser  to  force  the  seed  of  the 
New  Race. 

It  is  not  a  cosmic  blunder  that  the  great  minds 
of  the  world  are  found  in  art,  including  the  su- 

[201] 


THE     HIVE 

preme  art  of  mystic  religion — and  seldom  in  the 
arena  of  statecraft.  The  world  was  never  man 
aged  from  a  senate  chamber;  the  cosmos  is  not 
guided  by  a  king.  When  rulers  of  the  past  have 
become  great  figures,  that  greatness  usually  rested 
upon  their  gift  of  poetry,  their  love  of  art  or  wis 
dom,  or  some  religious  quality. 

Poems  of  twenty  words  have  outlived  the  might 
of  forty  wars.  A  great  book  is  a  higher  achieve 
ment  than  a  sweeping  political  move.  The  dull 
est  changeling  with  an  obsession  may  set  his  seal 
upon  a  war  to  the  death  of  ten  million  men,  but 
in  the  few  lines  of  a  true  poem  are  stored  the 
honey  of  millenniums  of  human  life.  A  genuine 
work  of  art  is  more  potent  and  practical  than  any 
blood-bought  wall  of  tribal  separation,  more  vital 
and  immediate  than  the  doings  of  armies.  To 
judge  of  this  properly,  one  need  only  know  both 
kings  and  poets. 

Of  the  early  kings  of  Rome,  it  is  Numa  who 
is  remembered — and  he  was  in  harmony  with 
Celestial  Order.  Of  countless  other  Roman  fig 
ures,  the  average  mind  turns  first  to  Caesar,  who 
was  a  literary  man,  and  whose  passion  to  write 
outlasted  every  march  of  his  legions.  Greece  had 
kings  and  statesmen  and  great  generals,  yet  it  is 
her  wise  men  who  stand  foremost.  The  conquer 
ing  Alexander  is  famed  chiefly  because  he  was  the 
unwitting  distributor  of  Grecian  beauty.  In  fact, 
Greek  history  began  with  Homer,  the  poet,  and 
American  history  with  Columbus,  the  dreamer 
who  is  still  our  creditor.  The  mystics  of  old 

[202] 


S  H  U  K 

China  reached  for  the  Torch  of  Light,  and  they 
might  have  attained  a  true  dominion  over  the 
planet,  had  not  their  fear-inspired  kings  built  a 
Wall  and  gelded  the  Empire  once  for  all.  Gau 
tama  Buddha  gave  up  kingcraft  in  order  to  gain 
a  higher  mastery.  Mohammed  lived  on  the  Road. 
Jesus  the  Christ  set  free  an  energy  in  the  world 
that  is  only  gaining  its  real  momentum  after  two 
thousand  years — and  he  firmly  refused  a  material 
crown. 

...  A  hopeful  dream,  the  poem  of  an  autumn 
afternoon,  the  building  of  a  sphinx  or  a  pyramid 
— these  are  not  subject  to  time  or  conditions. 
They  remain. 

So  the  Children  who  are  the  hope  of  the  world 
are  not  dismayed  at  the  medley  of  illusions 
emanating  from  the  so-called  ruling  class.  Em 
perors  and  premiers  do  not  get  very  much  done 
either  way;  they  themselves  abandon  their  own 
works  over  night.  They  are  deserving  of  pro 
found  sympathy.  They  only  spread  out  more 
manful  chaos  to  be  set  straight  by  the  master 
craftsmen — the  artists,  humorists,  vitalists,  mys 
tics.  .  .  .  Beauty  is  the  sun-bright  flash  of  the 
Infinite. 

With  duty  raised  to  a  joy,  and  pain  forgot,  the 
Singers  come,  the  Builders,  the  Quickeners  of  man. 
The  Unforgettables  of  the  so-called  past  were  of 
this  stock.  Their  leisure  is  deep — of  a  sort  that 
sustains  the  finitudes. 

All  the  good  goals  of  yesterday  are  to  be 
counted  as  mile-posts.  Direction  is  more  impor- 
[203] 


THE      HIVE 

tant  than  any  imaginable  goal;  unvarying  ten 
dency  is  more  direct  and  splendid  than  any  creed ; 
the  white  path  of  the  quester  is  more  precious 
than  a  stationary  heaven. 

The  modern  children  cannot  stop  on  this  side 
of  the  horizon  because  they  are  creators.  Life  is 
their  religion.  Their  rites  are  broad  and  deep  as 
man,  as  ancient  and  reverent  as  time,  as  new  as 
dawn. 

They  do  not  reject  the  Vedas.  They  re-fash 
ion  the  Upanishads  in  their  own  hearts.  They 
study  the  travels  and  hopes  of  Jesus,  listen  for  the 
divine  songs  of  Orpheus,  penetrate  tbe  glitter  of 
numbers  with  Pythagoras,  find  satisfaction  in  the 
Mohammedan  thinkers  who  connected  Aristotle 
with  Moses.  These  names  do  not  belong  to  the 
past.  The  many  Buddhas  are  perpetually  modern. 
Kabir  lives  to-day  in  Tagore.  Heracleitus  and 
Plato  are  still  living  springs. 

In  just  the  same  sense,  the  children  of  the 
New  Race  are  old  as  the  Pelasgian  Zeus,  though 
in  point  of  time  they  are  here  for  work  and  play 
in  1920.  But  their  vitality,  reality,  beauty, 
power  and  achievement — these  are  affairs  of 
all  time. 


[204] 


19 
IMAGINATION 


MANY   mystics   have   lost  touch  en 
tirely  with  the  deep  sunken  abut 
ments  of  the  spiritual  edifice — the 
footings  in  matter.  They  are  deeply 
wise  in  the  mysteries  and  unfoldments  of  contem 
plation,  but  lose  their  way  like  mindless  lambs  in 
the  world.     We   idealise   a  practical  mysticism 
which  dares  to  walk  the  earth  in  the  heat  of  the 
day,  dares  to  contemplate  the  stars  as  outposts 
of  the  heavenly  kingdom,  launching  the  vision  at 
last,  not  only  to  the  Holy  City,  but  to  the  Throne 
of  Itself.  .  .  . 

Talks  with  Shuk  at  Stonestudy  had  a  tendency 
to  make  us  see  the  big  Unseen  politics  and  di 
plomacies  and  rulerships  of  the  planet.  Here  are 
a  few  paragraphs  from  one  of  his  letters  which 
show  the  quality: 

.  .  .  Kings  and  presidents  are  the  most  ham 
pered  of  men.     Great  generals  are  silly  without 
their  armies.     To  remove  externals  from  us,  to 
[205] 


THE      HIVE 

rid  our  minds  of  the  illusive  and  the  inessential, 
is  simply  to  clear  us  for  action.  Even  a  gunner, 
in  taking  aim,  regards  the  object  or  enemy  as  an 
abstraction,  and  focuses  his  whole  attention  upon 
his  own  instrument,  his  sights.  If  he  actually 
looks  at  the  enemy,  he  will  not  hit  him.  The 
billiardist  first  glances  over  the  entire  table,  then, 
to  make  a  true  shot,  concentrates  his  full  attention 
upon  the  tip  of  his  own  cue.  Perhaps  the  great 
leader  of  armies  does  not  regard  individuals  or  see 
them  as  men,  but  as  extensions  of  his  own  body, 
and  in  time  of  stress,  he  has  forgotten  them  com 
pletely  save  as  abstract  power  for  his  use,  and 
that  use  he  determines  interiorly.  Even  the  most 
material-minded  of  men,  in  the  crux  of  worldly 
and  four-square  events,  sinks  into  deep  and  effec 
tive  cerebration.  Can  we,  who  realise  this  as  a 
conscious  and  direct  principle,  do  any  less? 

I  think  the  Guardians  are  sitting  together  a  lit 
tle  way  off,  watching  with  grand  interest,  to  see 
just  how  much  of  a  mess  mankind  can  make. 
Man  is  always  given  lavish  supplies  with  which 
to  create  works  of  art  that  may  prove  equal  in 
beauty  and  wonder  to  the  universe  itself.  Man 
does  not  yet  see  art  in  these  materials. 

He  must  open  his  eyes  before  the  Powers  are 
able  to  help  him.  The  Guardians  cannot  oper 
ate  against  man's  will,  because  their  will  and  his 
will,  including  yours  and  mine  right  now,  are  of 
one  piece.  The  will  of  the  Guardians  is  better 
trained  and  cleaner,  because  more  experienced. 
.  .  .  When  men  cease  to  shout  for  different  things 
[206] 


IMAGINATION 


from  the  same  Father,  they  stand  a  chance  of  get 
ting  the  Father's  attention. 

•  ••••• 

We  have  had  many  astonishing  hours  in  Chapel 
talking  about  these  "Guardians,"  the  arrangements 
above,  as  below,  one  Plan  governing  all.  We  do 
not  care  to  bandy  about  the  name  of  God  a  great 
deal,  for  we  realise  that  He  is  most  unseen  when 
embodied  in  matter;  that  He  is  apt  to  be  far  from 
the  mind  that  makes  familiar  with  Him  in  words. 
Yet  all  stands  for  Him,  all  reveals  Him.  The 
farther  we  can  see  beyond  mere  eyesight,  the  more 
we  realise  that  He  is  not  standing  exactly  in  per 
son,  just  outside  of  the  boundaries  of  matter. 

There  are  hierarchies,  so  to  speak.  There  are 
messengers  and  couriers  and  charioteers,  saints,  pil 
grims,  angels,  courtiers,  priests  and  politicians, 
grades  and  authorities  represented  there,  such  as 
we  find  in  Matter  and  Romance  here.  .  .  .  Shuk 
and  Steve  and  I  used  to  hypothecate  the  existence 
of  a  White  Council  back  of  all  the  religious  move 
ments  of  the  world.  By  humour  and  analogy  and 
romantic  speculation,  we  arrived  at  the  point  of 
view  that  the  world  religions  are  one  at  the  top, 
and  that  initiates,  illuminati,  masters  are  stationed 
at  intervals  to  help  humanity  up  the  slopes.  We 
conceived  the  White  Council  as  a  centre  of  wisdom 
love  and  power,  holding  up  the  cup  continually  for 
revelation,  guiding  and  guarding  humanity's  soul. 
We  glimpsed  the  fact  that  the  leaders  of  the 
[207] 


THE      HIVE 

White  Council  might  be  beyond  embodiment — 
at  least  in  avoirdupois — the  holy  of  all  holy  men. 
Only  a  most  pure  and  potent  messenger,  we 
thought,  would  be  permitted  to  reach  this  Inner 
Temple,  this  Shamballah,  compared  to  which  the 
Vatican  is  a  salon  open  to  the  public  and  the 
monasteries  of  Thibet  a  concourse  for  pilgrims. 

After  religion,  we  realised  that  there  must  be 
an  upper  centre  for  all  that  is  represented  here 
below  so  diversely  in  politics  and  nationalism. 
It  couldn't  be  God  Himself  back  of  the  dumas 
and  senates,  reichstags,  diets  and  parliaments.  One 
does  not  pass  from  elevator-boy  to  editor  in  chief 
in  a  great  commercial  office.  If  there  were  a  White 
Council  back  of  all  the  religious  movements  of 
the  world,  there  must  be  a  Big  Mill  back  of  all 
world-politics — a  gathering  of  directors,  ventur 
ing  to  judge  the  problems  of  men  because  they  had 
risen  above  them.  .  .  .  These  men  could  want 
nothing  material.  We  perceived  them  behind  arm 
ies  and  thrones,  manipulating  kings  and  diplo 
mats  and  secret  centres,  in  ways  that  even  the 
closest  agents  did  not  understand. 

We  concluded  there  must  be  another  centre 
made  up  of  the  master-artists,  bringing  through 
into  matter  (as  the  world  can  stand  it  and  as 
the  little  human  instruments  reach  up  for  them), 
the  great  delivering  beauties  of  song  and  story, 
paint  and  verse  and  tale.  And  this  we  called  the 
Shop  Itself.  Sometimes  we  fancied  that  it  was 
[208] 


IMAGINATION 


all  too  much,  even  to  dream  of  going  there  some 
time  to  see  the  forms,  the  marbles,  the  canvases, 
the  manuscripts — the  Artists  themselves.  .  .  . 
And  then  we  realised  that,  just  as  all  the  arts  and 
all  the  religions  and  all  the  political  movements 
were  one  at  the  top,  that  Politics  and  Art  and 
Religion  were  one  at  the  next  eminence;  that  the 
Inner  Council  and  the  Big  Mill  and  the  Shop  It 
self  were  one  at  the  top,  just  as  Wisdom,  Love 
and  Power  are;  as  Goodness,  Beauty  and  Truth 
are;  as  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Spirit  are — three 
in  one  at  the  Top,  and  that  was  Himself.  .  .  . 

And  then  we  would  rise  from  Chapel  and  go  out 
and  look  at  the  lake — Steve  and  Shuk  and  I. 

Finally  one  day  we  were  told  that  we  had 
done  some  right  good  dreaming — that  it  was  all 
true.  We  were  advised  that  it  was  no  affair 
of  ours  if  other  people  didn't  get  it  right  away; 
that  they  would  get  it.  ...  So  we  began  to  put 
these  things  in  stories.  They  mean  Romance  to 
us.  Queerly  enough  the  stories  are  coming 
through — one  long  one  especially,  called  Archer •, 
that  shows  the  downhere  activities  of  the  Big  Mill 
and  the  White  Council  and  the  Shop  Itself. 

I  have  said  it  often  in  this  book — that  our 
culture  consists  of  the  quantity  of  properties  that 
we  have  tallied  off — the  within  with  the  with 
out.  The  Kingdom  is  within,  also  the  King;  the 
Sky  and  the  Nest  are  one;  one  are  the  heavens 
[209] 


THE      HIVE 

and  the  homing  heart  that  finds  its  peace  in  the 
deep  vales  where  the  adorable  humanities  come 
to  be.  The  inmost  and  the  uppermost  are  one. 

We  are  where  the  torch  of  consciousness  is. 

We  are  in  the  body,  or  in  the  mind,  or  in  the 
soul;  we  are  in  time  or  eternity,  or  we  pass  back 
and  forth.  .  .  .  First  we  tally  off  the  far  outposts 
of  the  kingdoms  without  and  within;  first  we  are 
mere  sentries  learning  to  become  clear-eyed  and 
brave  to  stand  alone — almost  outsiders,  having 
scarcely  heard  of  the  Kingdom,  dimly  conscious, 
but  learning  to  become  steady-eyed.  Then  we 
are  called  in  a  little — called  in  to  become  couriers 
on  foot,  running  to  and  from  among  the  outer 
provinces  of  the  kingdom;  then  messengers  to 
the  Middle  Countries;  then  Charioteers  to  the 
gates  of  the  City;  then  ministers  to  the  court  of 
the  King.  .  .  . 

The  day  comes  at  last  when  we  have  audience 
with  Him — when  we  rule  with  Him,  when  we 
become  united  with  Him.  From  the  throne  It 
self,  then  we  perceive  the  outsiders,  the  sentries, 
the  couriers,  messengers,  charioteers,  the  winged 
riders  and  the  deep-down  men  of  the  dun 
geons.  .  .  .  With  the  fine  tranquillity  of  power, 
we  measure  forth  to  all,  reverence,  justice  and 
grace. 


[210] 


20 

BOYS   AND   DOGS 


CHILDREN  of  the  new  social  order  love 
strange  creatures;  they  are  passionate 
about  the  care  and  protection  of  ani 
mals,  but  until  they  are  made  to  suffer, 
they  are  apt  to  be  sceptical  about  the  infallibility 
of  their  elders.     They  are  usually   forced  into 
silence  early.     I  have  noted  that  their  ideas  are 
intrinsically   at  variance   with  parental   ideas — 
about  purity,  sunlight,  dancing,  foods,  religion, 
odours.  ...  It  takes   a  good  man   to  break   a 
horse  or  a  dog.     In  a  sense  break  is  the  word,  al 
though  I  would  accomplish  it  with  enchantment 
rather    than    a    gad.  .  .  .  This    is    invariable: 
"When    the    pupil    is    ready — the    Master    ap 
pears "  an  old  occult  saying,  and  another: 

"The  first  thing  the  Master  does  is  to  break  the 

back  of  his  disciple " 

Stiffness  of  opinion,  rigidity  of  holding  to  that 
which  one  has,  preconception,  deep-rutted  habits 
of  mind — all  these  are  fatal  to  that  swift  and 
[211] 


THE      HIVE 

splendid  growth  of  the  disciple  when  he  first  finds 
his  teacher.  For  days  the  child  is  in  a  bewilder 
ing  series  of  changes — made  over  new  each  fort 
night — reviewing  lives  of  experience — razing  the 
old  structures  to  the  very  footings  for  new  tem 
ples  of  mind  and  soul.  The  child  must  be  ready 
to  give  himself — must  give  himself  utterly.  The 
essential  reverence  is  first  required;  the  self  is 
broken  for  all  births;  one  gives  one's  self  to  gain 
all.  I  would  not  try  to  quicken  a  child  who 
doubted  what  I  was  saying;  and  yet  I  have  never 
sought  to  make  myself  unerring  or  infallible.  I 
iike  to  have  the  young  ones  make  humour  of  my 
frailties,  and  at  the  same  time  believe  there  is 
something  priceless  in  our  better  moments  to 
gether.  There  is  no  possibility  of  front  or  acting. 
I  seek  to  make  them  practise  the  presence  of  the 
Divine  in  themselves.  I  tell  them  never  to  do 
anything  alone  that  they  would  not  do  before 
me.  I  take  away  all  sense  of  sin  from  them.  I 
sometimes  congratulate  them  on  being  especially 
close  to  us,  because  of  mistakes.  I  seek  to  set  them 
free  in  all  their  ways,  stripping  the  last  attraction 
from  evil,  jockeying  them  higher  from  a  humor 
ous  and  artistic  point  of  view.  I  show  them  the 
banality  of  many  popular  and  obvious  evils, 
the  dulness  of  paying  the  price  for  something  off 
form  and  of  questionable  taste. 

There  is  a  lot  of  humour  and  nobility  about  a 

[212] 


BOYS      AND     DOGS 


good  dog  and  a  good  boy  together.  John  has  been 
sleeping  for  a  few  nights  in  a  bit  of  a  cabin  with 
an  open  door.  He  picked  up  a  friend  down  on 
the  beach  somewhere,  the  same  that  he  described 
as  "World  Man  Dog"  in  one  of  his  letters.  I 
liked  the  tone  of  his  voice  as  he  talked  with  this 
old  loafer  named  Seaweed.  .  .  .  One  evening  I 
was  sitting  on  the  hill  above  the  cabin,  so  still 
that  even  a  bird  would  have  mistaken  me  for  a 
part  of  the  landscape. 

World  Man  Dog  came  up  the  cabin  grade.  His 
head  was  down — thinking.  His  tail  was  straight 
out  behind  him,  as  a  dog's  tail  is  when  very  much 
engaged  with  his  own  thoughts.  You  could  see 
that  he  was  going  to  keep  an  appointment;  it 
was  evident  that  he  was  afraid  he  might  be  late. 
He  did  not  see  me,  so  completely  was  he  engrossed 
in  his  own  affairs.  He  went  right  on  up  to  John's 
door,  entered,  gave  a  look  round  the  shack,  first 
eagerly,  then  to  make  sure.  His  face  fell,  his 
body  sagged — down  he  slumped  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor — utterly  dejected.  As  plain  as  day: 

"Hell,— he  ain't  here!" 

A  real  dog  trainer  is  a  wise  man.  I  used  to 
raise  collies  and  was  around  the  benches  some — 
watching  the  champions  come  and  go.  One  old 
trainer  talked  to  me : 

"Styles  change  in  dogs,"  he  said,  "but  a  good 
dog  doesn't  change.  He  goes  on  and  on.  You 
[213] 


don't  get  the  good  collies  here  on  the  benches 
any  more.  This  year  they  want  the  collie  so 
fine  that  we  have  to  pinch  the  brain  out  of  his 
head  and  break  his  lung-room  in  two.  Last  year 
we  bred  for  hair,  not  for  body  and  brain.  Look 
at  that  one " 

He  pointed  to  an  old  sire  that  had  three  seasons 
of  the  bench  and  blue,  a  sweeper  of  prizes.  I 
remember  the  time  when  such  a  head  would  have 
started  a  stealer  anywhere.  The  old  collie  had 
not  lost  form,  but  styles  had  changed.  A  most 
stupid  dog  with  a  straight,  narrow  head  had  won 
— not  the  shepherd  type  at  all,  but  the  head  of  a 
Russian  wolf-hound — a  bit  of  the  monster  left 
in  it,  a  drugged  look  in  the  small  black  eyes; 
hysteria  there,  and  not  fealty — madness  and  not 
soul. 

"We  breed  them  for  the  cities  now — for  porches 
and  parlours,"  the  trainer  added.  "Yes,  those 
great  collie  strains  that  we  have  been  nurturing 
for  centuries  to  all  that  is  brave  and  hard  and  use 
ful — we  are  putting  the  hair  of  the  lap-dog  on 
them  now — long  silky  stuff,  not  for  snow  and 
sleet.  The  collie  walks  by  himself  these  days. 
No,  we  won't  altogether  ruin  the  strain.  Many 
individuals  are  spoiled,  but  the  race  had  come 
too  far  and  too  long  to  be  broken  down  by  a  few 
years  of  fancyfying." 

Of  course,  I  was  thinking  of  the  children  at 
[  214  ] 


BOYS     AND     DOGS 


every  stage  of  the  talk — of  city  people  and  chil 
dren.  As  a  race,  the  city-bred  have  become  too 
fine.  Life  has  worn  them  thin — given  them  the 
drugged  look  about  the  eyes.  The  race  will  never 
get  far  in  the  art  of  living  until  it  comes  home 
to  the  land  and  the  restful  distances  and  free  flow 
ing  airs.  This  is  so  true  that  it  seems  to  risk  wear 
ing  the  eye  and  the  mind — to  say  it  again.  .  .  . 

It's  good  to  see  them — a  boy  and  a  dog  together 
in  the  hills  or  down  by  the  edges  of  the  land. 
There  was  a  piece  of  decent  collie  in  a  dog  named 
Jack  back  on  the  lake  shore.  He  was  long  in 
strength  and  courage,  but  a  bit  shy  in  obedience. 
As  a  work-dog,  he  was  ruined  by  a  man  who  knew 
less  than  he  did,  frequently  the  case  in  bringing 
up  dogs  and  men — whipped  at  the  wrong  time, 
every  forming  endeavour  in  the  pup-brain  broken 
by  that.  He  is  seven  or  eight  years  old  now  .  .  . 
a  clean  dog,  a  very  wise  and  kind  dog,  with  a 
sly  and  quiet  humour  that  seldom  is  cruel  and 
never  falls  into  horse  play — a  lover  of  many 
children  and  confident  of  an  open  door  in  many 
homes. 

I  remember  the  dignity  and  beauty  of  his  first 
appearance  over  the  bank  from  the  shore,  almost 
timed  to  our  arrival.  We  were  tender  to  the  collie 
in  general,  having  passed  years  with  them.  Jack 
moved  from  one  to  another  accepting  embraces 
with  a  kindliness  that  mellowed  that  cloudy  day. 
There  was  joy  about  it  all.  I  stood  back  waiting 
[215] 


THE      HIVE 

my  turn  with  much  self-control.  He  submitted  to 
the  welcome — to  the  last  detail,  and  a  little  later 
refused  refreshments  with  perfect  courtesy. 

When  we  came  back  the  second  summer,  we 
found  that  a  bullet  had  broken  Jack's  right  front 
leg.  He  had  wintered  out  at  times,  had  known 
much  pain.  It  was  not  that  he  did  not  have  good 
friends  who  would  have  taken  him  in,  but  I 
think  Jack  lost  faith  a  bit  in  the  pain  and  stress. 
There  was  grey  about  his  muzzle.  One  day  he 
sat  in  the  centre  of  the  little  Chapel  class. 

"I'd  like  to  be  as  good  a  man  as  Jack  is  a  dog," 
one  of  the  boys  said. 

"You'd  be  one  more  man,"  said  another. 

The  fact  is  Jack  has  filled  his  circle  rather 
well.  This  thought  came  to  me  presently  with 
fuller  meaning.  I  regarded  him  with  knowledge 
of  three  seasons.  A  clean  dog,  a  gentleman,  a 
master  of  himself,  very  courageous  and  slow  to 
anger,  impossible  for  small  children  to  anger — 
a  dog  among  dogs,  but  more  than  dog  among  men. 

"He  has  filled  his  circle,"  I  said  aloud.  "What 
makes  a  man  look  less  in  these  very  virtues  that 
Jack  has  mastered,  is  that  a  man's  circle  is  larger, 
and  he  has  not  reached  the  time  of  fulfilment  as 
Jack  has.  If  the  dog's  accomplishments  were  sud 
denly  lifted  from  his  circle  and  placed  in  a  larger 
one,  we  would  not  be  conscious  of  the  fine  integra 
tion  of  virtues  that  keep  us  interested  now." 
[216] 


BOYS      AND     DOGS 


Men,  lost  in  the  complications  of  cities,  yearn 
for  the  simplicity  of  their  early  days  on  the 
farms ;  and  yet  they  could  not  go  back.  The  sim 
plicity  they  yearn  for  is  ahead.  That  of  the 
old  country  days  is  but  a  symbol  of  the  cosmic 
simplicity  in  store  for  us.  Tolstoi  turned  back 
to  the  peasants,  yet  the  simplicity  he  craved  was 
not  there. 

The  peasants  are  merely  potential  of  what  the 
New  Race  will  be;  the  peasants  themselves  must 
suffer  the  transition — must  have  their  circle  wid 
ened  and  feel  their  little  laws  and  their  little  sense 
of  order  suddenly  diffused  over  broad,  strange  sur 
faces.  Their  cosmic  simplicity  will  appear  when 
the  larger  dimension  is  put  in  order.  That  which 
is  lovely  in  any  plane  of  being,  is  that  which  is 
in  flower — when  it  has  about  filled  its  present  cir 
cle.  We  are  not  less,  intrinsically,  because  our 
values  are  placed  in  a  larger  vessel,  though  we 
have  a  renovating  sense  of  our  own  insignificance. 
There  is  an  order  of  small  men,  so  obviously  a 
part  of  their  very  narrowness,  that  it  becomes  in 
stantly  repulsive  to  larger  souls.  Many  of  the 
latter  have  flashed  off  to  the  end  of  their  tether 
for  the  time,  preferring  chaos,  to  the  two  by  two 
neatness  of  small-templed  men. 

A  secret  of  growth  lies  in  these  observations. 

We  fill  a  certain  circle,  restoring  a  kind  of  order 

in  the  chaos;  and  then  the  circle  is  suddenly 

widened  and  that  which  was  our  order  and  mas- 

[217] 


THE      HIVE 

tery  is  loose  and  diffused  within  the  larger  orbit. 
Herein  are  the  pangs  of  transition.  We  lose  our 
way  for  the  time  in  the  vaster  area,  like  a  man  who 
is  unfamiliar  with  an  estate  just  purchased.  There 
is  but  one  thing  to  do — to  begin  to  work  upon  the 
new  dimension.  As  we  work,  courage  and  pa 
tience  steal  in.  Presently  comes  the  vision  of  the 
completed  circle.  When  this  comes,  our  labour  is 
pinned  to  a  fresh  ideal,  and  we  are  safe. 

In  a  hundred  ways  I  have  found  it  true  that 
the  vision  comes  in  the  labouring  hours.  One  may 
move  for  weeks  about  his  new  estate  (or  manu 
script),  planning  this  and  that,  but  the  glimpse 
of  the  cohering  whole  is  denied  him,  until  he  has 
actually  begun  upon  the  nearest  or  most  pressing 
task.  This  is  the  miraculous  benefit  of  action 
again.  In  giving  ourselves  forth  in  action,  the 
replenishment  comes.  The  sense  of  self  ceases  to 
clutter  the  faculties  as  we  bend  and  toil. 

The  days  that  are  added  to  our  experience  each 
bring  this  story  in  a  different  way:  that  the  sense 
of  self  impedes  reality  on  every  hand ;  that  the  loss 
of  the  sense  of  self  in  labour  and  service  renders  us 
instantly  quick  to  the  animations  of  the  spirit, 
without  which  at  least  from  time  to  time,  a  man 
belongs  to  the  herd,  and  is  lost,  like  all  gregarious 
creatures,  in  the  will  of  his  superiors. 


[218] 


21 

THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  PEACE 


f""  ""^HERE  is  a  man  here  who  has  found 
peace.  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  his 
house.  A  boy  from  the  village  went 

"^^  with  me  part  of  the  way  up  the  moun 
tain.  The  Pacific  was  presently  visible  upon  the 
right  hand,  and  a  spacious  verdant  valley  on  the 
left.  I  lingered  a  moment  on  the  trail,  rejoicing 
in  the  quiet  splendour,  and  then  noticed  a  vine-clad 
hut  still  farther  up  the  slope. 

"That's  Mr.  Dreve's  cabin,"  the  boy  said. 

I  learned  from  him  that  this  man  Dreve  was 
well-loved  in  the  village  and  in  the  big  city  be 
yond  ;  that  he  was  a  very  different  man  now  from 
the  one  who  had  come  here  a  few  years  ago;  that 
he  was  torn  and  maddened  then,  cursing  God, 
but  too  stubborn  to  kill  himself. 

"What  helped  him*?"  said  I,  because  the  boy 
had  paused. 

"Well,  it  wasn't  the  climate,"  he  answered. 
[219  ] 


THE     HIVE 

I  saw  he  was  wondering  if  I  were  worth  risking 
the  truth  upon. 

"Did  he  fight  it  out  with  himself?"  I  asked 
carelessly. 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  and  I  now  met  a  fine 
straight  pair  of  eyes.  .  .  . 

•There  was  an  old  sharp  wedge  to  the  story. 
Dreve's  sweetheart  had  died — the  loss  twisting 
him  to  the  point  almost  of  insanity.  He  had 
climbed  this  mountain,  it  was  said,  and  remained 
for  three  days,  until  the  town  began  to  search. 
The  marshal  had  found  him  sitting  up  there,  where 
the  shack  is  now.  Dreve  was  quiet  and  normal, 
but  confessed  himself  hungry.  He  had  returned 
to  the  mountain  soon  afterward,  and  built  his 
cabin.  In  six  months,  Dreve  was  all  changed 
over.  He  seemed  to  have  a  new  body  and  new 
mind. 

"You  said  he's  here  four  days  a  week,"  I  sug 
gested. 

"Yes,  he  goes  to  the  city.  He  has  a  good  busi 
ness,  but  has  mastered  it  to  the  point  that  several 
younger  men  can  run  it.  Dreve  only  gives  two 
or  three  days  a  week  to  business  affairs,  though 
he  has  been  a  great  worker " 

"He's  up  there  now?"  I  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Does  he  mind  strangers'?" 

"Not  your  kind." 

.[220] 


THE      MAN      WHO      FOUND      PEACE 

I  thanked  him,  and  added,  "Tell  me — he  means 
a  lot  to  you,  doesn't  he1?" 

"All  a  man  could,"  said  the  boy.  "I'm  going 
back  now." 

Dreve  was  middle-aged,  clean-shaven,  deep- 
eyed.  Time  had  been  driven  to  truce  in  his  case. 
His  face  showed  many  battles,  but  when  he  spoke, 
a  kind  of  new  day  dawned  and  you  looked  into 
the  face  of  a  boy.  I  remained  with  him  three 
days.  We  talked  of  the  new  magic  in  the 
training  of  children.  We  talked  of  the  New 
Age  and  the  great  song  of  joy  and  peace  that 
would  break  across  the  world  when  troops  turned 
home. 

Dreve  had  something.  He  seemed  to  breathe 
something  out  of  the  air  that  other  men's  lungs 
aren't  trained  for.  He  seemed  to  have  within 
everything  necessary  for  a  human  being,  includ 
ing  vision  and  humour  and  a  firm  grasp  of  the 
world.  He  was  at  peace  about  God  and  the 
world;  at  peace  also  about  death.  Slowly  it 
dawned  upon  me  that  this  man  had  walked  arm 
in  arm  with  life  to  the  last  abyss,  and  that  life 
had  been  forced  to  confess  that  she  had  nothing 
worse  to  offer,  whereupon  the  two  had  become 
fast  friends. 

When  a  man  can  sit  tight  and  lose  everything 
he  formerly  wanted  in  the  sense  of  world  posses 
sions;  when  he  has  winnowed  the  last  shams  out 

[221] 


THE      HIVE 

of  the  things  called  fame  and  convention  and  so* 
defy;  when  he  has  lost  the  woman  who  means  all 
the  world  to  him,  and  still  loves  her  memory  and 
her  soul  better  than  the  living  presence  of  anjr 
other  woman;  when  he  has  come  to  realise  that 
death  contains  everything  he  wants,  yet  is  content 
to  wait  for  it — the  idea  of  hell  becomes  a  boyish 
thing  to  be  put  away,  and  Lucifer  returns  to  his 
old  place  as  a  Son  of  the  Morning. 

We  stood  together  in  the  noon  sun.  Dreve  did 
not  even  wear  a  hat. 

"I  came  here  in  great  shadow  and  could  not  beai 
the  light,"  he  said.  "But  one  day  I  found  my 
heart  lifting  a  little  as  the  sun  came  out.  Then  I 
found  that  it  was  really  true — that  sunlight 
helped  me.  The  more  I  thought  about  it,  the 
more  I  needed  it;  the  more  I  loved  it,  the  more 
its  particular  excellence  for  me  unfolded.  Take 
anything  to  the  light,  and  it  ceases  to  be  form 
idable.  Sickness  is  a  confession.  The  time  is  at 
hand  when  schools  will  teach  that.  Sickness  is  a 
confession  of  ignorance  which  is  a  lack  of  light.  If 
one  is  weak  he  cannot  stand  the  light.  Trans 
planted  things  must  be  protected  from  the  light. 
St.  Paul  on  the  road  to  Damascus  did  not  have 
enough  inner  light  to  endure  the  great  flash  from 
without.  Light  works  upon  evil  like  quicklime — 
that's  why  sunlight  hurts  the  sick  ones.  It  is 
also  hostile  to  the  utterly  stupid  idea  of  what 
clothing  is  for — clothing  that  thwarts  and  stran- 

[  222  ] 


THE      MAN      WHO      FOUND      PEACE 

gles  every  circulatory  process  of  the  flesh.  There's 
nothing  the  matter  with  sunlight " 

The  sun  had  not  only  redeemed  the  physical 
shadows  of  Dreve's  life,  but  symbolised  the 
spiritual  light  which  had  come  to  him  with  the 
calm  and  power  of  the  greater  noon-day.  He  did 
not  speak  in  exact  statements  of  the  one  who  was 
gone,  but  that  romance,  too,  was  like  light  about 
his  head.  I  thought  of  the  wonderful  thing  that 
Beatrice  said  which  helped  to  heal  the  forlorn 
heart  of  her  great  lover : 

"I  will  make  you  forever,  with  me,  a  citizen 
of  that  Rome  whereof  Christ  is  a  Roman " 

And  I  thought  of  the  Blessed  Damosel  leaning 
over  the  barrier  of  heaven  with  sweet  and  im 
mortal  messages  for  him  who  waited  below  in  the 
very  core  of  earth's  agony.  In  passing,  the  great 
lovewomen  bridge  the  Unseen  for  their  lovers, 
who  in  their  turn  give  to  the  world  the  mighty 
documents  of  the  human  heart.  In  passing,  this 
woman  had  become  everything  to  Dreve,  so  that 
I,  a  stranger,  felt  that  he  was  not  alone  but  twice- 
powered.  All  his  life  was  a  prayer  to  her.  He 
brought  to  her  spirit  now  the  greatest  gift  that 
man  can  bring  to  his  mate — the  love  of  the  world 
through  her  heart. 

We  had  walked  down  to  the  ocean.  Many 
young  people  were  bathing  in  the  surf  or  playing 
on  the  strand.  It  was  the  presence  of  Dreve  per 
haps,  but  I  confess  that  human  beings  never  be- 
[223] 


THE     HIVE 

fore  looked  so  wonderful  to  me — a  fearlessness 
and  candour  and  beauty  about  the  moving  groups 
that  was  like  a  vision  of  the  future.  All  small- 
ness  of  self  was  smoothed  away  in  the  grand 
harmony  of  sun  and  sand  and  sea. 

"It's  a  kind  of  challenge  to  a  war-stricken  world, 
isn't  it?"  he  asked  quietly.  "Aren't  they  splendid 
together — the  big  boys  and  girls  of  California? 
.  .  .  Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  know  the  world. 
I'm  not  lost  in  dreams.  I  know  well  the  darkness 
of  the  world.  But  there  are  great  ones  among 
the  boys  and  girls  playing  together  here.  All  are 
on  the  road,  but  the  great  ones  of  the  Reconstruc 
tion  are  already  here  in  the  world — playing. 

"Great  ones  play,"  he  repeated.  "First  we  are 
labourers,  then  artisans,  then  artists,  then  workers 
— at  last  we  learn  to  play.  That  means  that  we 
dare  to  be  ourselves,  wherein  lies  our  real  value 
to  others — when  we  dare  to  become  as  little  chil 
dren.  .  .  .  Hear  them  laugh.  .  .  .  You  wouldn't 
think  this  was  the  saddest  little  planet  in  the  uni 
verse.  .  .  .  Look  at  that  tall  young  pair  of  sun 
burnt  giants!  She's  a  Diana,  conquesting  again. 
Look  at  the  wonder  in  his  eyes!  Perhaps  it  is 
just  dawning  upon  him  that  the  man  who  walks 
with  this  girl  must  walk  to  God. 

".  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  he  added  laughingly, 
"there  is  flippancy  and  a  touch  of  the  uncouth 
here  and  there — but  we  have  all  played  clumsily 
at  first." 

[224] 


THE      MAN      WHO      FOUND     PEACE 

I  continually  marvelled  at  Dreve's  remarkable 
health.  His  stride  up  the  mountain-side  was  ac 
tually  buoyant. 

"Did  you  ever  feel  that  you  could  live  as  long 
as  you  pleased1?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"I  think  one  does  not  learn  this  until  after 
one  has  wanted  to  die.  One  must  live  above  the 
body  and  not  in  it — in  order  to  make  it  serve 
indefinitely — quite  the  same  as  you  would  climb 
above  a  street  to  watch  a  parade  go  by." 

I  put  that  thought  away  for  contemplation, 
knowing  that  it  belonged  to  a  certain  mystery  of 
Dreve's  regeneration. 

"You  know,"  he  added,  "one  has  to  get  very 
tired  to  want  to  die.  Those  young  people  down 
on  the  shore — they  want  to  live.  They  are  not 
tired.  They  want  to  cross  all  the  rivers.  They 
mean  to  miss  nothing  down  here.  They  can't 
see  through  it  all.  It  challenges  them.  But  the 
time  comes  when  everything  on  earth  seems  to 
betray.  Then  you  have  to  turn  to  the  Unseen 
for  the  big  gamble.  The  world  is  learning  it  rap 
idly  to-day.  Look " 

We  had  reached  his  hill-cabin. 

He  turned  from  the  sea  to  the  valley.    Night 

was  falling.     There  was  a  big  moss-rose  plant 

that  smelled  like  a  harvest  apple,  and  filled  all 

the  slope  with  sweet  dry  fragrance.     There  was 

[225] 


THE      HIVE 

a  constancy  about  it,  and  the  great  sun-shot  hill 
was  blessed  with  the  light  and  creativeness  of  the 
long  day.  It  was  like  the  song  of  finished  labour 
from  a  peasant's  heart.  .  .  .  One  forgot  the 
world,  the  war,  forgot  that  the  holy  heart  of  hu 
manity  was  in  intolerable  travail.  .  .  .  The  val 
ley  that  Dreve  now  pointed  to  was  like  an  Eng 
lish  pastorale.  It  had  the  look  of  age  and  long 
sweet  establishment  in  the  dusk.  My  friend  was 
quick  to  catch  the  thought  in  my  mind. 

".  .  .  It  is  like  England,"  he  said.  "There 
was  a  development  of  detail  in  English  country- 
life  as  nowhere  else.  I  think  of  cherries  and  cattle, 
of  strawberries  with  clotted  cream,  of  sheep-dogs 
and  sheep-tended  downs  and  lawns,  of  authori 
tative  cookery,  natural  service  and  Elizabethan 
inns.  .  .  .  Everything  was  regular  and  com 
fortable.  One  forgot  to-morrow  and  yesterday 
in  England  before  the  war.  I  heard  a  dog-trainer, 
speaking  of  a  pup,  say,  'He's  a  fine  indiwidual, 
but  his  breeding  isn't  exactly  reglar.'  .  .  .  With 
a  rush  it  came  to  me  that  nothing  in  the  world 
is  regular  now.  England  isn't  a  soothing  pastorale 
any  more — everything  changed,  demoralised — but 
only  for  the  present." 

The  dusk  was  stealing  down  from  the  far  ridges. 

Our  eyes  were  lost  in  the  California  valley  which 

seemed  to  be  growing  deeper  in  the  thickness  of 

night.     Almost  as  Dreve  spoke,   I  expected  to 

[226] 


THE      MAN      WHO      FOUND      PEACE 

hear  vesper  bells  from  some  Kentish  village.  His 
low  voice  finished  the  picture : 

"Country  roads  and  sheep  upon  the  lawns, 
vine-finished  stone-work,  doves  in  the  towers  and 
under  the  eaves,  evening  bells  and  honest 
goods.  ...  I  think  of  the  ships  going  forth  from 
England,  boys  from  the  inland  countries  answer 
ing  the  call  of  the  sea  and  finding  their  fore-and- 
afters  and  men-of-war  in  Plymouth  or  Bristol. 
.  .  .  You  know  it  is  the  things  that  make  the 
romance  of  a  country  that  endure*?  All  these  will 
come  again.  All  the  good  and  perfect  things  of 
the  spirit  of  old  England  will  come  again.  .  .  . 
Our  hearts  burn  within  to  think  of  the  yearning 
in  the  world  for  a  peaceful  valley  like  this.  .  .  . 
Think,  if  I  could  take  your  hand  now  and  watch 
the  sun  go  down  upon  a  peaceful  world  .  .  . 
hear  the  cattle  coming  home  and  sheep  in  the  per 
fumed  mist  of  evening  .  .  .  doves  under  the  eave? 
and  the  sleepy  voices  of  children.  ...  I  think 
Europe  would  fall  to  screaming  and  tears,  and 
then  lose  its  madness  for  strife — if  the  big  picture 
of  our  valley  at  evening  were  placed  before  the 
battle-lines  as  we  see  it  now." 

Dreve  stared  a  moment  longer.  I  fancied  I 
saw  a  bone-white  line  under  the  tan,  running  from 
chin  to  jaw. 

"A  woman  was  leaving  her  lover,"  he  added. 
"It  had  to  be  so.  Each  knew  that.  Just  as  she 
was  going,  the  woman  said,  'I  forget — I  forget 
[227] 


THE      HIVE 

why  I  have  to  go  away.'  ...  It  would  be  that 
way  with  the  soldiers,  if  they  could  look  down 
upon  their  own  valleys  and  farms.  They  would 
forget  war  and  hurry  down,  saying,  'I'm  com 
ing!' " 

I  wanted  to  get  closer  to  Dreve's  secret  of 
peace  and  power.  I  wanted  to  tell  it.  Apparently 
Dreve  wanted  me  to.  Now,  there's  a  price  to 
pay  for  these  big  things,  but  many  are  willing  to 
pay  the  price  if  the  way  is  clear.  Dreve  had 
suffered  all  he  could;  then  something  had  turned 
within  him,  and  he  found  himself  in  Day  again 
instead  of  Death. 

"It  must  be  told  differently,"  he  began.  "For 
instance,  if  I  should  tell  you  that  the  way  is  to 
love  your  neighbour  as  yourself,  you  wouldn't 
have  anything.  Whitman  said,  'Happiness  is  the 
efflux  of  soul,'  which  is  exactly  true,  but  it  didn't 
help  me  until  I  had  experience.  Happiness  is 
the  loss  of  the  sense  of  self.  You  can  see  that 
clearly.  All  pleasure-seeking  is  to  forget  self. 
We  loosen  something  inside  that  sets  us  free  for  a 
moment,  and  we  say  we've  had  a  good  time. 

"There  are  great  powers  within.  The  greater 
the  man,  the  more  he  uses  this  fact.  We  thought 
of  steam  as  a  finished  power  until  the  big  straight- 
line  force  of  electricity  was  released.  We  can't 
explain  it,  but  we  have  touched  certain  of  the  laws 
which  it  obeys.  The  materialist  is  inclined,  as 
[228,] 


THE      MAN      WHO      FOUND      PEACE 

ever,  to  say  that  electricity  is  the  last  force  to  be 
uncorked  on  the  planet,  just  as  he  said  that  the 
kerosene  lamp  was  the  last  word  in  illumination. 
The  occultist  declares  that  there  are  still  higher 
and  hotter  forces,  touching  Light  itself,  and  in 
dulging  in  the  laughter  of  curves  and  decoration 
where  the  cold  monster  electricity  moves  only  in 
straight  lines. 

"Men  have  died  to  tell  the  story  that  happiness 
is  radiation,  not  reflection — that  we  have  it  all 
inside,  if  we  could  only  turn  it  loose — that  all 
pain  and  fear  and  anger  and  self-illusion  disap 
pear  the  instant  we  enter  the  larger  dimension  of 
life,  exactly  as  the  moon  goes  out  of  sight  in  the 
presence  of  the  incandescent  sun. 

"I  was  emptied  of  all  that  life  meant  in  the 
world — but  something  new  flooded  in.  I  saw 
that  all  was  not  lost,  but  that  all  was  greater  than 
I  could  dream ;  that  all  was  waiting  for  fuller  and 
finer  expression.  I  saw  that  what  I  could  do  for 
you,  or  for  any  man  or  woman  or  child,  brought 
me  a  living  force  of  the  love  I  was  dying  for. 
It  became  clear  that  I  needed  only  to  clear  away 
the  choking  evil  of  self,  in  order  to  feel  that  I 
was  a  part  of  the  tender  and  mighty  Plan, — to 
touch  the  rhythm  of  the  Source,  from  which  all 
songs  and  heroisms  and  martyrdoms  come. 

"It  has  all  been  said  again  and  again.  There 
comes  a  moment  usually  after  much  pain  when 
the  human  mind  realises  that  it  is  invincible  when 
[229] 


THE      HIVE 

working  with  the  Plan;  that  it  may  even  merge 
with  a  kind  of  Divine  Potency  yet  retain  itself; 
that  it  can  actually  perform  its  actions  with  the 
help  of  that  mighty  fluid  energy  in  which  the  stars 
are  swung  and  the  avatars  are  born. 

"A  cold  monster  indeed  is  this  electricity  com 
pared  to  the  odic  force,  the  dynamo  of  which  is 
the  human  will.  But  the  magic  of  it  all  lies  in 
the  reverse  of  the  whole  system  of  use.  This 
force  destroys  when  used  for  self,  but  constructs 
when  it  is  turned  outward.  Here  we  touch  the 
law  again  that  happiness  is  in  radiation — in  the 
loss  of  the  sense  of  self — in  incandescence — " 

Dreve  smiled  at  me  with  sudden  revealing  * 
charm.  "I  would  say  that  it  was  all  in  loving 
one's  neighbour,"  he  added,  "except  that  it  has 
been  said  so  much.  ...  It  is  true.  You  seemed 
to  know  it  to-day  on  the  shore.  You  seemed  to 
see  the  great  ones  passing  there.  If  the  world 
could  only  know  the  joy  of  seeing  the  sons  of 
God  in  the  eyes  of  passing  men !" 

Night  had  come.  We  sat  at  the  doorway  of 
his  cabin,  a  waver  of  firelight  within,  stars  clear 
ing  above  the  misty  sea. 

"It's  all  play  when  one  gets  into  the  Plan — 
all  pain  while  one  resists  the  Plan,"  Dreve  added 
slowly.  "I  used  to  think  that  I  had  a  strong  will ; 
that  I  had  good  will-force,  as  men  go.  It  was 
the  will  of  an  invalid  child.  If  men  could  only 
[230] 


THE      MAN      WHO      FOUND     PEACE 

know  the  force  that  is  theirs  to  use  when  they 
enter  the  Stream!  One  is  asked  to  give  up  old 
habits  and  ways  and  propensities — but  only  be 
cause  they  are  harmful  and  impeding.  All  which 
really  belongs  is  merely  obscured  for  the  time.  It 
returns  to  you  with  fresh  loveliness  and  power. 
One  does  not  give  up  three-space  to  understand 
four-space.  The  truth  is  he  must  rise  above  the 
former  to  see  it  all. 

"It  isn't  you  and  I  who  matter,"  he  said 
abruptly,  after  a  pause.  "These  things  are  for 
all.  I  know  what  comes  afterward — to  a  man  or 
to  a  nation — when  driven  to  the  last  ditch  of  pain. 
A  new  dimension  of  power  comes.  That's  what 
happens.  That's  what  the  New  Age  is  all  about. 
That's  what  the  war  means.  We  shall  learn 
our  new  chastity.  We  shall  emerge  as  a  race 
into  a  more  serene  and  splendid  conscious 
ness.  .  .  .  The  price — the  dead.  ...  I  could 
tell  you  something  about  that.  One  must  have 
prayed  for  death  to  know  about  that.  Don't 
think  of  that  now — only  take  it  from  me,  or  from 
your  own  soul,  that  the  big  Plan  is  all  right — 
that  They  haven't  made  any  mistakes  yet — that 
the  loved  one  is  only  away  for  a  time — busy — 
quite  right — about  the  Father's  business.  An 
other  time  for  that. 

"I  can't  forget  them  down  on  the  Shore,"  Dreve 
finished.  "That  was  play.  It  was  all  a  laugh 
down  there.  The  big  forces  and  the  big  people 


THE      HIVE 

are  always  a  part  of  laughter.  The  laugh  will 
take  you  to  the  throne.  The  Gods  laugh.  .  .  . 
There's  a  laugh  that  ends  pain.  There's  a 
laugh  that  challenges  power.  There  is  the  laugh 
of  the  aroused  lover  in  the  world.  We  shall  hear 
the  laugh  of  the  world  itself,  when  the  big  reve 
lation  breaks  upon  us  all  that  the  Plan  is  good — 
that  the  Plan  is  for  joy." 


[232] 


22 

A   DITHYRAMB   AND   A 
LETTER 


I  think  we  come  through  at  birth  with  certain 
sealed  orders  to  be  opened  at  distant  points  of 
the  journey.  .  .  .  Ten  years  ago,  as  I  lay  one 
night,  ready  for  sleep,  hand  lifted  to  put  out  the 
light — my  eyes  found  these  lines: 

"Lisfen,  I  will  be  honest  with  you: 
I  do  not  offer  the  old  smooth  prizes,  but  of 
fer  rough  new  prizes. 

These    are   the   days    that   must    happen    to 

you: 
You  shall  not  heap  up  what  is  called  riches; 

You  shall  scatter  with  lavish  hand  all  that  you 
earn  or  achieve; 

You  but  arrive  at  the  city  to  which  you  were 
destined — you  hardly  settle  yourself  to  sat- 
[233] 


THE      HIVE 

isf action,   before  you  are  called  by  an  ir 
resistible  call  to  depart; 

You  shall  be  treated  to  the  ironical  smiles  and 
mockings  of  those  who  remain  behind  you; 

What  beckonings  of  love  you  receive  you  shall 
only  answer  with  passionate  kisses  of  part 
ing; 

You  shall  not  allow  the  hold  of  those  who 
spread  their  reach' d  hands  toward  you.  .  .  . 

'A lions!  After  the  Great  Companions,  and  to 
belong  to  them/'  " 

The  thing  had  come  around  by  India — a  quo 
tation  from  Walt,  in  a  little  Hindu  book  of  love 
and  death  by  Nivedeta.  It  spoiled  my  night.  I 
resisted.  Some  entity  connected  with  the  lines 
seemed  to  smile  patiently.  Deep  within,  I  knew 
they  belonged  to  me;  that  I  should  have  to  real 
ise  them,  line  by  line,  then  live  them;  that  here 
was  a  page  from  the  envelope  of  my  sealed  or 
ders  to  be  opened  after  clearance — opened  far  out 
on  the  white  water. 

They  used  to  strike  me  as  hard  lines  until  the 
warm  laugh  came  up  out  of  them.  .  .  .  Romance 
means  Not  to  stay.  .  .  .  Bit  by  bit,  the  story  un 
folds  that  the  Plan  is  good — that  the  Plan  is  un- 
[234] 


A      DITHYRAMB      AND     A      LETTER 

utterably  good,  that  one  needs  only  to  rise  into  the 
spiritual  drift  to  find  that  all  are  God's  coun 
tries.  First  the  big  physical  drift,  the  drift 
around  the  world,  along  the  waterfronts,  missing 
none  until  the  laugh  comes,  until  the  petty  things 
of  life,  in  no  arrangements  or  combinations,  can 
hold  your  faculties  or  even  long  attract  the  eye. 
You  know  them  all. 

One  must  learn  the  world  first;  one  must  not 
miss  the  world  tricks.  The  men  who  have  lived 
most  have  laughed  most.  But  don't  stay  too  long 
in  the  labyrinths.  They  are  passages  of  pain  so 
long  as  you  give  yourself  to  them.  Still  you  must 
solve  the  maze.  After  that,  don't  stay — don't 
stay  to  pick  up  threads.  There  are  other  mazes, 
other  drifts.  I  assure  you  life  is  rich  and  brave, 
but  there  is  nothing  so  healthy  as  a  laughing  dis 
cussion  of  death  in  one's  own  mind — the  next  step 
of  the  cosmic  adventure  .  .  .  and  to  travel  light 
there — not  to  take  our  mortgages,  our  material 
ambitions,  our  stone  houses  full  of  effects — by 
no  means  to  take  our  card-indexes  and  letter  files 
— to  travel  light,  to  pick  up  the  brighter  shells 
by  the  way — every  glimpse  ahead  showing 
higher  light — a  more  spacious  and  splendid  pros 
pect.  .  .  .  Why  carry  our  furs  and  frost-proof 
igloos  for  this  adventure  in  the  deeper  tropics? 
.  .  .  To  become  as  little  children — to  be  open 
hearted  and  free  handed — to  listen,  to  believe,  to 
make  pictures,  to  see  across  apparent  separate- 
C  235  ] 


THE      HIVE 

ness,  to  forget  one's  self  in  the  daisy  fields,  to  love 
the  light  and  the  land,  to  fall  into  ecstatic  spec 
ulations!  You  can't  do  that  if  you  carry  the 
plumbing  of  your  house  in  mind,  and  stop  sud 
denly  to  recall  if  you  turned  off  the  water  in  the 
laundry-tubs. 

Weigh  up  your  external  possessions — weigh 
them  carefully — for  their  amount  is  the  exact 
measure  of  your  infidelity  to  God.  .  .  . 

To  become  as  a  little  child — to  know  that  the 
forests  are  filled  with  other  than  things  to  eat — 
to  love  the  mysteries  awake,  to  love  the  fairies  and 
the  hidden  flowers  into  strange  unfoldings — to 
be  fearless  and  free  forever!  .  .  .  The  Little 
Girl  writes  of  her  love  for  it  all  as  it  comes : 

...  I  have  a  half  a  minute  to  send  my  love 
and  strong  pull  for  High  Flight.  We  wanted 
this  to  be  the  magic  week  of  the  Home  Coming, 
but  it  must  be  best  to  wait  a  little  longer.  Wait, 
wait — that  is  the  old  song  of  Earth — young  wait 
ing — big  waiting — holy  waiting.  I  love  it.  I 
love  the  suffering  of  it.  One  is  great  according 
to  how  well  one  can  wait.  I  am  loving  Earth 
terribly.  It  is  close  to  me,  with  its  strange  music. 

Last  night,  the  Valley  Road  one  and  Esther  and 
I  were  together — touched  great  white  things — • 
talked  and  laughed  and  loved  until  long  after 
three.  Each  in  her  way  is  a  power  wherever  she 
touches.  Each  has  everything  within.  Each  is 
pure  and  wonderfully  sweet.  We  wait,  open- 
[236] 


A     DITHYRAMB     AND     A      LETTER 

armed,  for  you.  There  are  wonders  in  Muriel — 
and  in  others.  I  dream  constantly  of  the  beauty 
to  come.  Nature's  ecstasy  will  be  bursting  forth 
in  fulfilment  when  our  Lovers  come  home.  I'm 
so  glad  this  morning! 

The  children  learn  it  so  easily.  I  like  to  stop 
in  this  book  and  let  them  say  it — the  big  story  of 
the  Seamless  Robe,  the  story  of  Democracy.  The 
young  men  say  it  strongly;  and  tenderly  the 
young  women, — the  dream  of  the  mate  in  their 
hearts  becoming  the  dream  of  the  Master.  They 
all  say  it  so  thrillingly  for  me  in  their  words  and 
lives — the  little  boys  coming  in  with  their  tales 
of  prairie  and  the  deeps ;  literally  it  is  here  out  of 
the  mouths  of  babes.  .  .  .  Dreve  found  it  in  a 
woman,  another  in  science,  another  in  music, 
another  in  the  open  road.  Every  man  is  his  own 
way,  his  own  truth  and  life.  It  waits  for  all. 
.  .  .  We  keep  fanning  day  and  night,  many  of  us 
who  work  at  home — the  fanners  of  the  Hive! 
We  cool  and  harden  the  great  spiritual  concept 
into  matter,  as  the  cathedral  spires  of  wax  appear 
and  harden  in  flaky  white  under  the  masses  of  the 
bees.  .  .  . 

I  laugh  at  my  own  intensity.  ...  It  is  our 
one  tale,  told  in  essay  and  story,  in  different  terms 
for  cults  and  schools,  for  soldiers  and  clergy,  in 
verse  and  prose,  with  dignity  and  in  slang,  but 
here  it  runs  best  out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  .  .  . 
helping  the  Big  Democrat  get  his  story  through. 
[237] 


THE      HIVE 

.  .  .  The  rest  of  the  chapter  is  the  Little  Girl's: 

THE  SOUL  SPEAKS. 

I  walked  through  a  field.  The  brown  soil  was 
upturned  and  all  the  richness  of  man's  labour  was 
in  it.  ...  The  morning  sun  was  lifting  a  grey 
veil  of  dew  up  to  its  heart;  the  earth  was  fresh 
and  cool  where  it  had  rested.  My  feet  were  bare 
and  sank  into  the  soft  richness.  The  field  was 
wide  and  pure  and  fragrant  and  alive.  It  seemed 
to  sing  as  the  sun  grew  warm  upon  it.  Ecstatic 
birds  flew  close  and  balanced  themselves  mag 
ically  in  the  sparkling  air. 

I  happened  to  be  just  ready  to  receive  the 
golden  loveliness  that  the  old  Mother  is  always 
eager  to  give,  that  morning.  She  helped  me  to 
feel  the  goodness  of  all  things — the  power  and 
beauty  of  all,  and  the  great,  giving  spirit.  .  .  . 
Inside  I  felt  keenly  the  presence  of  Soul — that 
was  the  secret.  Soul  awakened  and  breathing, 
Soul  waiting  and  eager,  Soul,  the  holy  quick- 
ener.  .  .  .  The  heart  beat  peacefully,  the  brain 
hushed  all  unnecessary  thought  and  listened.  I 
lay  down  upon  the  sweet  ground  there — the  body 
relaxed  and  forgotten. 

Then,  from  the  depths  within,  I  heard  the 
sound  of  the  Soul's  voice  speaking  these  words : 

"This  is  the  appointed  time.  Long  enough 
have  I  sat  mute  and  silent  in  the  darkness.  We 
have  learned  the  lesson.  The  circle  of  separate- 
ness  is  complete.  We  are  ready  to  enter  a  new 
globe  now,  a  globe  much  larger  than  the  one  we 
[238] 


A      DITHYRAMB      AND      A      LETTER 

have  known,  much  more  wonderful.  In  it  there 
are  greater  tests  than  we  ever  had  before.  But 
the  new  tests,  instead  of  being  painful,  are  joyous; 
not  separateness  is  ahead,  but  union,  oneness  in 
all  things.  .  .  .  Long  have  you  gone  your  way 
alone,  down  the  road  of  deafness  and  blind  eyes 
and  pain;  and  not  the  way  I  would  have  led  you, 
though  perfectly  right,  for  it  was  an  education. 
The  blindness  and  darkness  of  it  has  taught  us 
what  not  to  do,  therefore  we  know  the  path.  .  .  . 
Ours  were  not  object  lessons;  always  we  have 
learned  through  opposites.  .  .  .  To  learn  the 
great  lesson  of  listening,  we  talked  much.  We 
told  others  of  the  paths  they  should  take  long  be 
fore  we  thought  of  following  our  own.  We  hated 
all  things,  to  learn  how  to  love;  we  took  all  to 
ourselves,  to  learn  how  to  give.  We  did  the 
things  of  death,  to  learn  life  truly.  .  .  .  We  have 
suffered  great  pain  to  know  the  secret  source  of 
the  everlasting  joy.  We  feared,  in  order  that  we 
may  become  fearless,  and  know  the  mystery  of 
the  dark.  We  chose  the  road  of  separateness  to 
feel' the  ecstasy  of  oneness  and  completion  at  last. 
We  entered  the  terrible  sphere  of  time  and  space 
to  transcend  both  and  be  free.  We  took  upon 
ourselves  pounds  of  tiresome  flesh,  to  make  of  it  a 
golden  symbol  of  the  great  spiritual  beauty  and 
freedom.  We  asked  for  everything  at  first,  but 
through  our  desiring  and  brooding,  we  learned  the 
most  wonderful  lesson  of  all — wanting  nothing 
but  to  give. 

"All  is  for  us.     The  Path  gleams  before  our 
[239] 


THE      HIVE 

eyes — the  long,  sunlit  path  leading  to  the 
Father's  house.  I  go  home  with  my  love  by  my 
side.  By  crying  out  in  agony,  and  by  weeping 
bitterly  we  have  learned  how  to  laugh.  The 
world  is  needing  us;  we  contain  all  things.  From 
now  on,  we  live  as  one  in  Wisdom,  Love  and 
Power." 


[240] 


23 

THE    MATING    MYSTERY 


I  THOUGHT  a  great  deal  about  Dreve's 
love-story  in  relation  to  the  young  people, 
in  relation  to  the  love  of  humanity,  and 
in  relation  to  the  mystical  growth  of  a 
man  denied  the  mate  on  earth.  In  the  first  place, 
there  must  be  many  great  love  stories  in  the  com 
ing  decades  of  reconstruction,  if  for  no  other  rea 
son  than  that  great  children  are  coming  in.  Such 
friends  and  brothers  and  comrades-of-all-the-earth 
can  only  be  born  through  the  excellent  and 
adequate  love  of  man  and  woman.  In  a  recent 
novel,  an  old  priest  of  the  Gobi  tells  something 
of  the  love  story  of  the  future  to  a  young  Amer 
ican  who  is  greatly  troubled  in  his  romance.  I 
quote  three  or  four  paragraphs  because  this  ex 
pression  in  fiction  is  clearer  than  I  could  write  it 
again.  Raj ananda  says: 

I  have  watched  your  devotion  for  the  woman 
and  it  has  been  a  holy  thing,  my  son.    You  love 
[241] 


THE      HIVE 

well.  She  has  become  more  than  earth- woman 
to  you.  She  has  become  the  way  to  God.  This 
leads  to  true  yoga.  Where  there  is  love  like  yours, 
there  is  no  lust.  Without  these  trials  you  could 
not  have  known  so  soon  the  love  that  will  bring 
you  in  good  time  to  her  breast.  'The  ways  of 
easily-wedded  pairs  sink  into  commonness  soon — 
the  dull  and  dreamless  death.  It  is  those  who  are 
kept  apart,  who  overcome  great  obstacles,  who 
learn  the  greatest  thing  of  all — to  wait — who 
touch  the  upper  reaches  of  splendour  in  the  love 
of  man  and  woman,  and  thus  prepare  themselves 
for  the  greater  union  and  the  higher  questing 
which  is  the  love  of  God  together. 

The  seer  must  know  the  hearts  of  men.  Knowl 
edge  of  love  is  the  knowledge  of  God.  Love  is 
the  Wheel  of  Life;  love  is  the  Holy  Breath  that 
turns  the  Wheel.  The  seer  is  far  from  ready  for 
his  work  in  the  world,  who  has  forgotten  from 
his  breast  the  love  of  man  and  woman.  And  then, 
my  son,  we  are  almost  at  the  end  of  the  night  of 
the  world.  The  Builders  are  coming  in  to  take 
the  places  of  those  who  have  torn  down  with  war 
and  every  other  madness  of  self.  These  Build 
ers  must  be  born  of  men  and  women — the  New 
Race — but  of  men  and  women  who  have  learned 
what  great  love  means. 

.  .  .  Listen,  my  son:  in  the  elder  days  men 
put  away  their  women  to  worship  God.  The 
prophets,  the  seers,  the  holy  men  walked  alone, 
and  left  the  younger-souls  of  the  world  to  bring 
forth  sons.  The  time  was  not  ripe  for  the  race 
U42] 


THE      MATING     MYSTERY 

of  heroes,  therefore  the  mere  children  of  men 
brought  forth  children.  And  all  the  masters 
spoke  of  the  love  of  God  for  man,  and  the  love  of 
man  for  man,  and  the  love  of  woman  for  her 
child,  but  no  one  spoke  of  the  love  of  man  and 
woman.  All  the  sacred  writings  passed  lightly 
over  that,  even  the  lips  of  the  avatars  were  sealed. 
But  now  the  Old  is  destroying  itself  in  the  outer 
world ;  the  last  great  night  of  matter  and  of  self  is 
close  to  breaking  into  light;  the  time  for  heroes 
has  come,  my  son,  and  heroes  still  must  be  born  of 
this  sacred  mystery — the  love  of  man  and  woman. 
So  all  the  priests  have  this  message  now,  all  the 
teachers  and  leaders  of  men,  even  I,  old  Raja- 
nanda  who  speaks  to  you,  and  who  has  never 
known  the  kiss  of  woman — all  are  opening  to  the 
world  the  great  story,  unsealing  the  greatness  of 
the  love  of  man  and  woman.  .  .  .  For  the  Build 
ers  are  coming,  coming  to  lift  the  earth — the 
Saints  are  coming,  my  son — old  Rajananda  hears 
them  singing;  the  Heroes  are  coming  with  light 
about  their  heads  and  their  voices  beautiful  with 
the  Story  of  God.  .  .  .  And  now  I  must  sleep. 
I  go  to  my  daughter,  who  waits  for  you.  .  .  . 
Once,  before  you  came,  she  rested  my  head  and 
filled  my  bowl  in  the  stone  square  at  Nadiram. 
Even  now  she  waits  for  you  in  the  hills  of  my 
country — not  far  from  this  place,  my  son 

In  the  big  expansions  of  life,  in  moments  of 
great  happiness,  or  hard-driven  by  pain — most  of 
us  have  realised  that  the  higher  we  rise  in  human 
[243] 


•      THE      HIVE 

consciousness,  the  nearer  we  get  to  the  All.  Thou 
sands  of  people  now  living  have  risen,  for  short 
periods  at  least,  above  the  sense  of  separateness, 
in  which  they  realised  that  the  finest  and  most 
exalted  love  a  man  may  have  is  for  "the  great 
orphan,  Humanity." 

The  human  heart  is  awakened  through  the  love 
of  one,  to  the  more  spacious  expression  for  the 
world.  All  life  is  a  learning  how  to  love.  The 
last  love  of  the  flesh  and  the  rolling  years,  before 
man  turns  his  love  from  flesh  to  spirit,  is  the 
grand  passion  of  man  and  woman,  yet  man  does 
not  abandon  the  woman  in  turning  to  Humanity 
or  to  the  Unseen.  Rather,  hand  in  hand,  the  eyes 
of  the  man  and  woman  are  unlifted  to  one  star 
— the  Apex  of  a  Triangle  perfected.  .  .  .  Yet 
one  must  not  turn  to  the  Unseen  until  he  has 
learned  the  full  agony  and  ecstasy  of  the 
seen. 

"Love  humanity  by  all  means,"  I  tell  younger 
ones,  "but  learn  what  love  means  first.  Do  not 
undertake  to  destroy  passion  until  you  have 
learned  its  glory  and  madness.  Rather  lift  pas 
sion  to  adoration,  and  use  it,  full-powered,  upon 
that  which  unfolds  forever  for  your  worship.  It 
is  not  well  to  kill  out  a  personality  until  you  get 
one." 

Our  youthful  reconstructionists  are  apt  to  stir 
the  community  with  opinions  or  actions,  which 
[244  1 


THE      MATING     MYSTERY 

have  to  do  with  their  own  heart  stories  and  the 
world's  romance.  They  have  a  way  of  confound 
ing  the  seasoned  authorities  of  pastorate  and  par 
ish,  with  embarrassing  questions  in  regard  to 
method  and  magic  in  the  making  of  two  souls 
into  one.  These  young  people  may  not  be  mod 
est  according  to  Elizabethan  ideals;  in  fact, 
the  young  women  are  apt  to  go  half-way  in  the 
choice  of  the  man  who  is  to  be  the  father  of  her 
children,  but  this  is  an  essential  of  innate  beauty 
and  fastidiousness.  More  and  more  the  higher 
types  of  the  new  social  order  are  questers  for  that 
single  and  holy  mating  which  brings  nearer  the 
dream  of  the  beautiful  and  heroic  in  children,  and 
which  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  a  future  to  die  for. 

The  story  of  Romance  cannot  be  written  nor 
interpreted  in  life  without  its  hill-rock,  named 
Liberty.  There  is  no  man-made  law  for  love. 
The  first  business  of  human  beings  is  to  find  their 
own  on  earth.  All  makeshifts  part  away;  all 
short-range  systems  scurry  past;  all  comets  and 
asteroids  cease  to  be  considered,  when  a  pair  of 
suns  whip  into  each  other's  attraction.  And  so 
it  is  with  a  true-mated  pair.  Those  who  have 
dreamed  long  and  kept  themselves  pure,  realise 
here  below  for  a  time  the  raptures  of  the  elect. 
The  new  generation  has  a  sense  of  this ;  and  while 
its  eyes  look  hard  and  daringly  for  its  own,  its 
finer  examples  preserve  an  integrity  for  the  one 
until  he  is  found. 

[245] 


THE      HIVE 

The  New  Race  realises  that  promiscuity  is  only 
a  lack  of  taste.  To  draw  the  fulness  and  redo 
lence  from  a  book  or  a  friend  or  a  lover,  from  any 
episode  or  fabric  of  life,  one  must  search  for  the 
true,  as  well  as  the  beautiful,  and  the  beautiful 
as  well  as  the  good.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that  tells  it 
best — it  dares  to  love  Beauty,  this  New  Race. 
It  means  to  bring  back  the  beauty  of  the  body  as 
well  as  to  breathe  forth  the  Soul.  Its  devil  and 
its  danger  is  Paganism.  It  loves  Nature  so  well 
that  it  is  in  danger  of  forgetting  that  the  old 
Mother  is  not  complete  in  herself,  but  a  manifest 
of  her  Lord  Sun.  .  .  . 

As  to  the  liberty  of  its  loves — the  New  Race 
realises  that  one  cannot  be  held,  except  by  vulgar 
hands,  where  that  one  does  not  want  to  stay.  A 
mated  man  and  woman  turn  each  other  abso 
lutely  free,  and  the  first  cry  of  their  liberty  is 
toward  one  immortal  nest.  Those  firmly  caught 
in  the  pure  dream  are  content  to  wait  for  each 
other.  They  do  not  experiment.  They  realise 
the  long  road  of  romance — a  road  so  long  that  the 
three-score  and  ten  is  but  a  caravansary  of  the 
night.  They  build  above  the  flesh  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  to  come  into  the  greater  beauty  of  the 
flesh.  Renouncing  nothing,  devoted  to  austerity 
only  for  mystical  union,  carried  away  in  no  aban 
donment,  they  seek  to  achieve  that  command  of 
the  body  by  the  mind,  and  that  command  of  the 
[246] 


THE      MATING     MYSTERY 

body  and  mind  by  the  Soul,  which  reveals  the  ulti 
mate  truth — that  the  plan  is  for  Joy ;  that  the  best 
of  all  things  is  for  men  who  have  mastered  them 
selves;  that  chastity  is  the  breath  and  inevitable 
answer  to  self -conquest. 

The  growth  of  Romance  through  an  ideal  mat 
ing  becomes  a  fusion  at  last  of  all  the  loves  of 
earth.  Connubial  blessedness  is  therefore  more 
reverently  to  be  promoted  than  procreation,  for 
upon  it  depends  the  loveliness  of  issue.  The  New 
Race  acts  upon  the  conviction  that  the  love  be 
tween  man  and  woman  is  the  holiest  of  earth  ex 
pressions,  rather  than  the  love  of  mother  and 
child.  The  first  contains  the  second. 

Still  no  earth  love  is  the  end.  .  .  .  Built 
through  austerity  and  idolatry,  through  denial 
and  abandon,  through  madness  and  martyrdom, 
through  pettiness  and  chivalry,  through  pain  turn 
ing  less  and  less  slowly  through  the  years  to  power, 
through  a  little  zone  of  peace  at  last  (the  calm 
before  the  greater  storm)  the  fervour  of  man  and 
woman  becomes,  in  the  fullness  of  time,  too  strong 
for  earth,  and  in  the  final  and  keenest  pain,  the 
administry  of  a  higher  force  begins.  ...  I  mean 
to  tell  this  in  a  queer  way  through  the  next  three 
or  four  chapters.  Straight  statements  will  not 
contain  it  quite — for  it  is  still  with  dream,  as  yet. 
Rather  I  mean  to  weave  the  concept  for  you — 
fold  on  fold — so  that  at  the  end  you  will  have  it, 
as  they  do  who  have  listened  in  Chapel  many  days. 
[247] 


THE      HIVE 

Flesh  is  not  integrated  finely  enough  to  carry 
the  higher  ardours  of  devotion.  If  the  great 
saints  who  have  learned  to  pour  out  their  souls 
in  adoration  to  the  Father  should  turn  back  to  a 
mere  physical  expression,  they  would  blast  them 
selves  as  well  as  the  object  of  their  madness.  The 
awakening  of  the  higher  forces  of  love  lifts  the 
eye  of  the  adorer  from  the  breast  to  the  brow  of 
the  beloved — from  the  brow  to  the  Initiatory 
Star  risen  at  last  to  meridian. 

A  new  dimension  of  love  is  entered  upon.  All 
life  tells  the  story.  Watch  the  big  birds  lift 
from  the  sand  to  the  cushion  of  wings;  watch  the 
airplane  quicken  its  speed  until  it  lifts  from  the 
monorail.  .  .  .  Machinery  of  racking  power  in  a 
falling  house,  is  that  great  love  which  has  not  yet 
learned  to  look  above  the  body  of  the  chosen  one. 

This  change  is  the  last  and  highest  pain  of  ro 
mance — the  breaking  apart  of  the  temporal,  for 
the  story  of  the  long  road.  Man  and  woman 
must  go  apart  for  the  mastery  of  self,  before  they 
are  ready  for  the  higher  mating.  The  great  love 
Story  invariably  crosses  the  mountains  of  separa 
tion.  If  we  cling  too  long  to  the  less,  nature  is 
outraged,  beauty  is  drained.  Brief  separations 
are  dangerous,  because  the  lovers  build  recklessly 
with  ideals  and  the  rarest  spiritual  materials. 
Meeting  again  too  soon,  they  encounter  an  un- 
miraculous  creature  face  to  face.  If  they  had 
really  completed  the  journey,  finished  the  task 
[248]  ' 


THE      MATING     MYSTERY 

apart,  they  would  have  come  into  that  tenderness 
which  loves  the  human  frailties  of  each  other,  and 
which  sees  the  manifest  of  three-score-ten  merely 
as  a  garment  particularly  made  for  a  particular 
journey. 

There  is  always  wrecking  work,  before  a  new 
and  wider  circle  is  entered  upon.  The  time  will 
come  when  men  and  women  shall  learn  that  the 
magic  of  going  apart  is  equal  to  the  magic  of  com 
ing  together.  In  all  birth-times,  in  all  transi 
tions,  the  consciousness  of  the  bearer  is  changed 
— often  queerly.  .  .  .  One  can  endure  the  primi 
tive  and  the  child  in  the  other's  mind;  one  might 
adore  the  great  play  of  passion,  and  all  the  art 
of  it;  one  might  never  weary  of  fragrance  of 
throat,  or  magnetism  of  hand,  the  inimitable 
plays  and  child  things — but  the  mind  is  forever 
the  slayer  of  the  real.  ... 

Remember,  there  is  not  a  full  union  possible  on 
the  physical  plane.  The  body  is  the  barrier  that 
separates  souls.  Those  who  believe  they  have  all 
of  each  other  in  that  which  they  see  and  hear  and 
touch — have  far  to  come  in  the  real  love  story. 
Have  you  ever  asked  yourself  what  physical  pas 
sion  is?  It  is  a  frenzy  to  overcome  separation. 
This  separation  was  necessary  for  the  diffusion 
of  life.  It  is  the  outbreath,  the  going  forth,  the 
great  generative  plan.  .  .  .  Physical  passion 
does  not  satisfy  the  agony  of  the  soul;  often  it 
[249] 


THE     HIVE 


only  makes  the  agony  more  keen.  In  the  early 
phenomena  of  all  great  love  stories,  there  is  en 
countered  that  blinding,  bewildering  need  to  be 
come  the  other — to  lose  identity,  to  fly  somehow 
into  the  breast  of  the  other  and  be  no  more.  This 
is  keen  pain  of  love  but  also  an  intimation  of 
greater  union. 

There  was  a  man  who  had  found  much  of 
beauty  and  power,  much  of  the  Burning  Desert 
and  certain  wonderful  touches  of  the  peace  of  the 
Hill  Country — in  his  story  with  a  certain  woman. 
She  loved  him  in  a  way  more  real  than  he  dreamed. 
Life  had  shown  him  much  to  scoff  at.  He  had 
been  glad  to  make  the  most,  merely,  of  an  exquis 
ite  playwoman.  One  day  she  was  down  town  to 
meet  him,  but  he  left  her  for  a  business  appoint 
ment.  That  afternoon,  about  everything  he  had 
in  a  material  way  was  swept  from  him — much  to 
which  his  ambition  had  tied  itself  for  several 
years.  The  man  was  badly  rocked.  He  walked 
the  streets — shocked  almost  to  laughter,  to  find 
all  that  he  had  held  for,  and  held  to,  plucked  from 
under.  ...  At  length  he  thought  of  the  woman 
who  waited.  The  laugh  of  mockery  quickened, 
because  he  thought  of  losing  her,  too — a  worldly- 
heart  who  would  go  with  the  rest — goods  that 
perish. 

He  knocked  at  the  door  where  she  waited.  It 
was  opened  swiftly.  He  did  not  need  to  speak. 
[250] 


THE      MATING     MYSTERY 

.  .  .  She  seemed  above  and  around  him.  There 
was  a  great  still  sweetness  he  had  never  dreamed 
of  as  a  man  (and  could  only  remember  dimly  as 
a  child  to  his  mother),  arms  of  tenderness  and 
healing.  .  .  .  He  saw  that  instant  in  her  eyes 
that  nothing  of  the  world  ever  did  nor  ever  could 
really  separate  them.  The  queerest  thing  about 
it  all  was,  that  he  used  a  word  he  never  could  use 
before — a  word,  as  he  said,  that  had  been  BO  badly 
worked  by  the  world  that  it  needed  a  lot  of  wash 
ing  before  it  was  fit  for  him.  Yet  it  came  to  his 
lips — wife — in  a  way  that  showed  him  also  a  new 
meaning  to  the  word  forever. 

This  subject  of  love  and  mating  is  only  opened. 
There  is  much  to  say  in  pages  that  follow,  but 
now,  apropos  of  nothing,  if  not  this  theme,  there 
is  a  chapter  of  letters.  They  somehow  contain 
the  spirit  of  many  things  I  have  longed  to  ex 
press.  Those  to  whom  they  appeal  will  find  the 
last  pages  of  the  book  richer  because  of  the  insert. 


24 

CHAPTER   OF   LETTERS 


WE  come  up  through  many  slaveries 
into  freedom.  It  is  the  end  of  a  con 
siderable  road  to  be  able  to  stand 
against  the  morning  sun,  saying :  "I 

want  nothing  but  to  give "  ...  To  be  able 

to  say  this  without  an  answering  laugh  of  mockery 
in  the  heart,  where  old  King  Desire  sits  with  his 
dogs. 

To  be  free — that  is  to  be  irresistible.  Do  you 
want  love?  You  only  spoil  it  when  you  stipulate 
what  the  return  shall  be — how  the  proffering  of 
the  return  shall  be  ordered  and  arranged.  The 
great  love  is  giving;  great  love  is  incandescence. 
One  must  be  radiant  to  be  happy.  It  is  so  lit 
erally.  It  is  so,  fold  within  fold.  .  .  . 

One  sees  gold,  looking  up  from  below,  and  its 
attraction  becomes  eminent  among  all  desires  for 
the  time.  We  pass  it  by  and  look  down,  as 
the  spirit  of  man  should  look  down  upon  gold, 
and  it  becomes  a  mineral  merely.  You  can  en- 
[252] 


CHAPTER     OF      LETTERS 

joy  it  as  you  enjoy  other  people's  roses.  It  be 
stows  itself.  Others  seek  to  bestow  it  upon  you. 

Hold  to  nothing  in  matter.  It  is  slavery. 
Give  yourself  laughingly  to  your  work  for  daily 
bread  without  thought  of  result.  Then,  and  not 
until  then,  are  you  inimitable  in  your  task.  Or 
der  the  performance  of  your  task  with  mere  brain 
and  attach  it  to  your  ambitions — you  but  do  what 
the  many  accomplish.  Your  product  is  multi 
ple,  not  a  perfect  cube.  It  cannot  unfold  into 
the  Cross.  It  misses  Resurrection.  You  must  be 
free,  even  to  perform  your  work  in  the  world. 
You  must  be  free  to  be  irresistible.  .  .  .  Genius 
is  approach  to  freedom.  It  finds  its  own  paths; 
it  cuts  itself  free  from  the  forms  and  vehicles  of 
others. 

We  have  known  the  dark  slavery  of  the  opin 
ions  of  others.  Many  of  us  have  cast  off  such 
bonds,  who  are  still  slaves  to  our  own  opinions. 
We  learn  to  stop  lying  to  others  before  we  learn 
to  stop  lying  to  ourselves.  Until  we  are  free,  we 
have  no  opinion  that  is  fit  to  endure;  until  we  are 
free,  our  opinions  are  coloured  and  formed  in  the 
matrices  of  personal  self,  which  is  subject  to 
death. 

It's  all  so  simple.  We  have  to  put  down  what 
is  in  our  hands  to  help  others.  We  have  to  still 
our  own  thought  to  listen  to  another's  saying.  We 
have  to  silence  the  self  to  hear  the  Master. 

This  silencing  goes  on  and  on  in  all  our  work. 
[253] 


THE      HIVE 

Pain  shows  the  way.  .  .  .  We  must  traverse  the 
deserts.  We  must  cross  all  the  rivers.  We  must 
see  one  by  one  every  material  thing  betray  us. 
This  is  the  Path — money,  opinions,  ambitions, 
health,  friends,  desires,  all  betray  so  long  as  we 
obstruct  their  approaches  with  our  own  concep 
tions  and  our  own  greeds.  We  rise  one  by  one 
above  these  illusions.  The  last  and  greatest  is 
that  desire  which  is  born  in  generation.  .  .  .  All 
the  old  reaches  its  highest  perfection  in  the  hu 
man  love  story.  All  Nature  binds  one  to  the 
loveliness  of  this  tale.  It  is  the  way  to  the  Way. 
Because  it  is  not  the  Way  itself,  it  appears  to 
end.  The  great  intensities  of  agony  now  begin. 
The  soul  realises  that  only  the  foothills  of  pain 
are  passed;  that  here  are  the  mountains,  here  are 
the  deep  valleys  that  contain  the  Gethsemanes 
and  timbers  for  the  Cross,  and  the  plan  by  which 
the  Cross  must  be  morticed  and  tenoned.  .  .  . 

The  sea,  the  mountain,  gold,  the  rose,  the  child, 
the  peasant's  simplicity,  the  coming  of  the  cool 
ness  of  evening,  the  glory  of  the  clay  and  water 
fall,  mist  and  cloud  and  star,  the  deep  healing 
winds  that  come  slowly  with  their  heavy  fruitage 
of  power  from  the  mountains,  the  swift  winds 
with  the  holy  breath  of  the  Sea — all  these  in  the 
breast  of  the  mate.  .  .  .  When  this  dream  is 
taken,  one  bleeds,  laterally  and  full-length.  One 
wants  to  die ;  thus  he  overcomes  death.  He  feels' 
the  great  burden  in  which  all  other  burdens  lose 
[254] 


CHAPTER     OF      LETTERS 

themselves.  When  he  passes  this  highest  series 
of  inland  peaks,  the  distances  stretch  clear  and 
shining  ahead.  This  the  test  of  faith  because 
you  deal  with  love  itself.  Your  soul,  in  its  earli 
est  advices,  tells  you  that  your  love  of  earth  is 
pure. 

It  is.     It  is  good.     It  is  the  highest  here. 

It  is  still  to  be  perfected  by  the  races,  even  by 
the  new  races,  who  must  be  born  bright  with  its 
untried  magic.  .  .  .  But  so  Ipng  as  it  is  idolatry 
to  that  which  is  subject  to  change,  it  is  hourly 
impregnating  the  life  itself  with  the  seeds  of 
pain.  .  .  . 

You  are  called  to  the  love  of  Souls.  Sooner 
or  later  you  must  go.  It  is  the  Path.  It  is  the 
steep  path  to  the  Master.  You  give  up  all  to  go 
this  way — and  then  you  laugh  to  find  it  all  re 
turned  in  lovelier  dimensions.  You  take  your 
idolatry  from  the  plane  of  mutation — lift  it  into 
the  glorious  and  changeless  plateaus  of  the 
spirit.  .  .  . 

You  turn  from  the  Seen  to  the  Unseen. 

This  is  the  passage.  You  are  called  to  go  alone 
a  little  way — to  be  worthy  of  the  great  Meeting. 
You  carry  your  gifts  of  the  passage  woven  into 
the  Seamless  Robe  of  your  being.  All  that  im 
pedes  day  by  day  you  cast  aside,  as  an  army  mak 
ing  a  perilous  retreat  casts  off  day  by  day  its  im 
pedimenta — until  at  last  you  stand  naked  upon 
[255] 


THE      HIVE 

the    eminence,    and    the    Voice    says,    "Be    not 
Ashamed — I  am  the  Beloved.      .  ." 

Out  of  slaveries.  .  .  .  We  think  at  first  that 
God  is  without — at  last  we  look  for  Him  within. 
We  come  from  the  happiness  of  the  Father's 
House  making  our  great  journey,  but  our  Soul's 
quest  continually  is  for  the  happiness  again.  Yet 
we  must  not  look  back.  It  is  failure  to  go  back. 
That  which  we  have  left  unfinished,  is  not  behind, 
but  awaiting  ahead. 

We  are  slaves  to  our  bodily  health  until  we 
learn  that  the  body  is  superbly  fitted  for  obedience 
to  the  Soul;  that  it  comes  into  its  rhythm  and 
beauty  only  when  mastered.  Indeed  the  very 
process  of  mastery  is  to  lead  it  to  the  Fountain 
of  Youth. 

We  learn  that  truly  to  be  rich,  we  must  give 
continually.  We  learn  by  the  quickenings  of  our 
spirit  that  white  lines  run  from  the  brows  of  all 
creatures  to  an  apex  which  is  God — that  God  is 
all.  All  is  God.  .  .  .  All  is  one.  We  are  one. 
We  are  brothers.  One  house  for  all  at  the  end 
of  the  Road.  .  .  .  We  find  the  King  in  our  own 
Souls.  We  learn  from  that  that  all  men  are 
Kings.  We  bow  to  all  Souls.  All  souls  are  rays 
of  God.  We  come  at  last  to  see  the  sons  of  God 
in  the  eyes  of  passing  men. 

Our  passion  now  is  outpoured.  That  is  joy. 
We  ask  nothing  but  to  give,  to  heal, — to  permit 
[256] 


CHAPTER     OF      LETTERS 

the  spirit  of  the  Healing  Masters  to  flow  through 
us,  but  first  we  clear  away  the  obstructions  of  the 
self. 

Achieving  our  own  chastity,  we  perceive  the 
potential  chastity  in  every  face.  We  are  deluded 
no  longer.  The  imbecile  cannot  hide  our  eyes 
from  the  Flame.  All  purity  must  be  found  with 
in.  We  have  no  fault  with  others  when  we  are 
cleansed.  We  see  the  heroes  then,  the  giants,  the 
runners,  the  singers,  the  charioteers. 

We  learn  that  we  can  give  nothing  real  away — 
that  all  we  do  for  others  is  service  for  ourselves. 
We  give  pain  for  joy,  time  for  eternity,  the  human 
for  the  divine — give  to  receive,  give  to  be  radiant. 
We  must  be  Flame  to  be  fed  by  the  Flame  Itself. 

We  are  prepared  by  every  suffering,  every  hu 
miliation,  until  the  personality  bows  at  last.  .  .  . 
Personality  is  good.  It  has  brought  us  where 
we  are.  Do  not  kill  it  out  before  its  work  is  fin 
ished.  We  do  not  realise  its  beauty  until  we  see 
it  mastered — until  we  see  it  with  the  eyes  of  the 
Soul.  All  one  story.  We  learn  to  love  step  by 
step.  We  love  ourselves,  our  possessions,  our 
children,  our  friends,  our  mates,  our  Masters,  our 
God.  .  .  .  The  higher  we  go,  the  more  perfectly 
we  contain  all  the  gradations. 

The  last  sufferings,  the  last  tests,  are  so  often 
through  the  human  love  story,  because  all  weak- 
[257]  ' 


THE      HIVE 

nesses  are  easily  shown  through  that — all  our 
pains  so  quickly  received.  .  .  .  The  bright  san 
dals  of  the  Master  at  last  are  heard  across  the 
Hills.  One  laughs  then,  for  He  brings  with  Him 
the  beloved  we  have  cried  for  so  long.  .  .  . 
Not  in  the  love  of  desire  after  that,  but  the  love 
of  giving,  the  love  that  casts  out  fear,  that  passes 
understanding,  that  fulfils  the  law,  the  irresisti 
ble  love  of  the  Christ. 


...  A  wonderful  morning — a  rare  Monday — 
the  highest  hold  yet — all  is  ascending.  All  beings 
are  so  wonderful.  I  sit  on  a  certain  bench  to 
work  one  morning — the  next  morning  cushions 
are  there  for  me.  ...  I  speak  a  sentence  from  a 
book  with  a  word  how  much  it  means  and  how 
worthy  to  love — and  the  sentence  is  brought  to  me 
illuminated  on  vellum.  .  .  .  They  bring  the  finest 
fruits — honey  for  tea,  cream  for  peeled  figs,  black 
bread  perfectly  toasted,  the  perfection  of  unsalted 
butter.  ...  I  walk  up  the  mountain  to  work — 
and  the  voice  of  the  gardener  is  a  benediction  from 
the  Most  High — and  I  stand  for  a  moment  look 
ing  toward  your  sea  over  the  city,  and  the  birds 
say,  'It  is  time." 

There  is  a  pool  of  lilies  at  the  top,  an  Alham- 
bran  villa,  great  rose  gardens.  ...  I  come  to 
[258] 


CHAPTER     OF      LETTERS 

the  pool — dip  my  feet  in  the  still  waters  and  I 
know  from  that  how  chill  the  night  has  been.  I 
look  at  the  lilies — how  far  they  have  opened — 
and  know  the  time  of  day.  I  pray  for  a  moment 
under  a  priestly  Pine  .  .  .  and  my  heart  goes 
out  in  the  new  joy  we  have  found — the  joy  of 
knowing  that  one  may  be  the  king  of  the  world 
and  the  confirmed  Son  of  God — if  he  but  learn 
the  one  lesson — to  want  nothing. 

Pool  of  lilies  in  the  morning  sun.  (A  little 
lizard  is  walking  along  the  arm  of  the  bench.  My 
bare  feet  are  quiet,  and  he  wonders  what  kind  of 
barkless  trees  they  are.  He  is  here  and  there. 
One  sees  his  body  move,  not  the  members.  The 
sun  puts  him  to  sleep.)  .  .  .  The  pool  is  still  as 
the  waters  of  sleep.  The  Sea — I  think  of  her 
always  as  the  emotional  body  of  the  world — the 
old  Sea  Mother  with  diamond-tipped  emotions. 
And  then  I  think  of  the  Master  Jesus  walking 
upon  the  Sea  and  saying  "Peace  be  still"  to  the 
stormy  waters.  .  .  .  Each  Soul  must  say  that  to 
his  emotions.  We  learn  to  walk  upright  upon  the 
earth,  then  to  still  the  waters,  then  to  have  do 
minion  over  the  birds  of  the  air — and  last  to  be 
seven  times  refined  in  the  Fire.  .  .  .  Earth,  wa 
ter,  air,  fire — the  first  quaternary.  .  .  .  Yes,  we 
are  learning  to  say  "Peace  be  still"  to  the  stormy 
waters.  We  do  not  know  how  beautiful  they  are 
until  they  obey. 

.  .  .  Out  of  the  still  waters  in  the  pure  blue 
[259] 


THE      HIVE 

starlight,  the  lily  blooms — the  lotus  on  the  still 
lagoons  of  the  Soul.  .  .  .  Naked  as  a  serpent's 
head,  the  sealed  bud  rises  from  the  water  in  the 
night.  .  .  .  Out  of  the  power  that  follows  the 
peace  upon  the  waters — for  the  blooms  of  the 
spirit  lift  greatly  in  the  tranquillity  of  the  heart 
that  follows  the  storm — out  of  the  power  of 
peace  upon  the  waters,  the  lotus  rises  and  waits 
like  a  bride  in  the  dawn-dusk  for  her  Lord  Sun 
to  brush  back  the  veils  and  find  her  heart. 

It  is  only  the  beginning  of  heaven  we  find  here. 
We  weary  of  the  world  and  turn  back  to  the 
Father's  House.  We  have  plucked  the  fruits  of 
pain — we  have  thirsted  and  hungered  again  and 
again.  .  .  .  Out  of  the  darkness  we  have  formed 
the  thought,  at  last,  that  there  must  be  quenching 
waters,  and  somewhere  bread  to  eat  that  does  not 
perish.  .  .  .  You  can  say  it  in  a  thousand  ways. 
The  Prodigal  tells  the  story.  He  arises  and  turns 
back.  Evolution  has  ceased,  involution  begins 
again.  He  is  being  folded  back  to  the  Father 
with  all  the  treasures  of  Egypt.  He  has  ceased  to 
diffuse  himself  in  generation,  through  which  he 
has  become  an  integral  part  of  every  fibre  of  the 
world,  and  begins  now  to  call  in  and  synthesise 
all  his  spiritual  possessions.  The  processes  of  dif 
fusion  were  in  pain — the  integration  is  joy' again. 
Each  day  of  the  up-slope  his  step  quickens.  The 
more  he  knows,  the  more  he  believes.  The  more 
[260] 


CHAPTER     OF      LETTERS 

he  sees,  the  larger  his  faith — the  more  his  treas 
ures,  the  more  sumptuous  his  order.  "Unto  him 
who  hath  it  shall  be  given." 

Again,  it  is  merely  lifting  the  consciousness  from 
time  to  eternity,  from  the  cramp  of  space  to  the 
flow  of  the  universe — from  pain  to  play — from 
desire  to  radiation.  .  .  .  One  ascends  and  at  each 
steps  sees  farther.  Day  by  day,  the  work  of  the 
installation  of  the  higher  powers  goes  on.  We 
give  up  nothing  but  that  which  impedes  the  inflow 
of  godly  forces.  That  which  we  think  we  want 
to-day  will  look  as  absurd  to-morrow  as  the  hope 
lessness  of  a  child  over  a  plaything  broken. 

It's  a  way  of  loving  every  step.  Thus  we  heal 
from  the  infinite  tears  of  the  changes  of  matter 
and  dissolution,  and  lift  our  love  to  the  Masters 
and  the  Immortal  Gods.  We  dare  love  utterly 
only  that  which  can  contain  us.  If  the  Masters 
loved  us  with  all  their  power,  we  would  fall  in 
the  madness  of  too  much  light.  .  .  .  Always,  they 
give  us  all  the  love  that  we  can  endure.  .  .  .  We 
give  our  all  to  them  and  expand  daily,  until  we 
know  the  passion  to  break  ourselves  open  in  ec 
stasy,  like  the  king  bee  under  the  whirring  wings 
of  the  queen. 

In  the  human  body,  the  diaphragm  is  the  sur 
face  of  the  waters.  If  our  consciousness  is  below 
that,  we  are  in  generation.  To  become  regen 
erated  is  to  lift  the  balance  of  consciousness 
above — to  rise  like  the  lotus  from  the  face  of 
[261] 


THE      HIVE 

stilled  waters.  ...  It  is  a  quickened  vibration. 
Simultaneously,  one  lifts  from  cerebration  to  in 
tuition — from  the  time  of  matter  to  the  spacious 
ness  of  Soul — from  the  light  of  the  camp-fire  in 
the  night,  to  the  full  day  upon  the  plain — from 
the  son  of  man  to  the  Son  of  God — from  the  pain 
of  loving  with  desire  to  the  irresistible  .creativeness 
of  wanting  nothing  but  to  give. 

in 

...  I  was  watching  the  pool  this  morning — 
fish  and  frogs  and  eels  under  the  lily-pads — a  slow 
cold  life.  They  have  colour  and  grace — but  eyes 
of  glass.  They  move  so  softly  down  in  the  dim 
coppery  light.  ...  I  thought  of  the  lakes  and  the 
seas,  the  simple  cold  of  all  life — the  coldest  and 
most  rudimentary  in  the  great  deeps.  .  .  .  Birds 
were  playing  about  in  the  rose  gardens,  darting 
in  and  out  of  the  bamboo  clumps  and  yucca  stalks. 
Humming-birds  were  continually  fanning  the 
trumpet  and  honeysuckle  vines.  ...  I  thought 
of  the  skylarks — throats  that  open  only  as  wings 
beat  upward,  and  the  infinite  blue  harbours  where 
the  white  gulls  flash — the  lonely  lakes  and  tarns 
where  the  heron  cross  in  the  evening  and  the 
loon  cries  at  night — the  cypress  deeps  where  the 
flamingoes  commune  in  shaded  glory,  and  the 
eagles  that  cross  from  peak  to  peak,  along  the 
spine  of  the  continents. 

.  .  .  And  then,  of  course,  it  came  to  me — the 
[262] 


CHAPTER     OF      LETTERS 


old  conquest — how  we  must  lift  our  consciousness 
above  the  face  of  the  waters  and  put  on  our 
wings.  .  .  .  Many  have  almost  finished  with  the 
waters  of  generation — the  emotional  body  of  man, 
the  same  as  the  planet.  ...  In  the  beginning,  it 
was  necessary  to  "go  down  into  the  water" — the 
terms  of  the  baptismal  rite.  Regeneration  is  "com 
ing  up  out  of  the  water."  The  struggle  between 
the  two  dimensions  is  dramatically  expressed  by 
the  faith,  and  the  lapse  of  faith,  of  Peter  when 
he  obeyed  the  Lord,  and  arose  to  walk  upon  his 
storm-tossed  lower  self.  His  supplication  as  he 
sank  saved  him  from  perishing.  Regenerated,  he 
walked  with  the  Lord  upon  the  waters.  I  remem 
ber,  too,  the  saying,  "You  must  be  born  again 
of  water  and  of  spirit ,"  the  story  of  regen 
eration  told  once  more.  .  .  . 

It's  a  lifting  from  the  cold,  bloodless  vibrations 
of  the  creatures  of  the  deep,  to  the  winged  pas 
sages  of  air  and  sun  and  starlight.  .  .  .  We 
think  that  we  give  up  joys  of  life — we  plunge  back 
again  and  again  to  the  dim  cold  waters — our  eyes 
blinded  at  first  by  the  light,  our  senses  frightened 
by  the  fragrance  and  the  space.  ...  As  if  the 
reflected  light  of  the  lower  cosmos  could  compare 
with  the  pure  radiance  above;  as  if  the  love  of 
desire  could  compare  to  the  glory  of  the  outpour 
ing  heart — the  heart  filled  with  light — the  ful 
ness  of  spirit,  the  ecstasy  of  wings. 

'[263]' 


THE      HIVE 
IV 

.  .  .  The  time  comes  in  the  progress  of  spiritual 
aspiration  when  the  generative  impulse  begins  to 
manifest  within  rather  than  without.  Firmly  and 
gently  the  thoughts  are  turned  to  the  Image  with 
in  or  above;  the  tendencies  for  outward  manifes 
tation  slowly  but  surely  give  way.  .  .  .  This 
work  sometimes  goes  on  rapidly.  A  hundred  times 
a  day  the  thoughts  of  earthy  attraction  are  fin 
ished  with  a  soul  conception,  where  formerly  the 
mere  physical  presence  sufficed. 

Nothing  answers  thought  more  swiftly,  but  in 
this  passage  of  mastery,  if  a  single  desire  eludes 
from  the  aspirant,  he  must  meet  it  later  in  a  tear 
ing  and  cumulative  call.  Surely  at  length  the 
mind  rises  to  rule.  One's  conception  changes 
from  the  fear,  the  torment  and  the  red  haze,  to 
gentleness  and  calm,  a  readiness  to  know  all  the 
mysteries  of  life — to  care  for  and  respect  all  func 
tions  as  one  only  can  who  has  mastered  himself. 

To  cast  them  out  in  hatred  is  failure.  That 
means  the  hardening.  It  blights  the  beauty  of 
the  vales  and  all  magic. 

When  one  begins  to  unfold  the  wonders  of  the 
kingdom  within,  as  one  is  called  to  do  in  the 
higher  and  contemplative  spheres  of  the  artistic 
life,  there  is  an  increasing  joy  that  makes  it  easy, 
more  and  more,  to  lift  the  power  of  life  from  the 
torment  and  unrest  of  the  generative  seas. 
[264] 


CHAPTER     OF      LETTERS 

One  finds  his  dream  of  the  beloved  changed  and 
infinitively  endeared  to  him.  Patience,  reverence, 
tenderness  comes  to  the  love  that  once  knew  only 
the  single  passion  of  a  male  for  the  mammal. 
Even  that,  in  memory,  becomes  beautiful  to  eyes 
of  wisdom  and  calm — all  God's  plan.  One  is 
sensitive  all  through  his  breast  for  the  unfathom 
able  sweetness  of  life  and  love.  He  sees  the  child 
and  the  immortal  in  the  mate.  He  finds  that  the 
body  is  truly  sacred  because  he  sees  it  with  love 
and  not  with  desire.  These  are  good  tidings. 
They  make  one  happy  to  write  them. 

There  are  seven  centres  of  ecstasy  in  the  body. 
Through  the  mastery  of  will  and  love  and  action, 
the  life-force  is  lifted  to  dwell  with  and  awaken 
these  centres.  With  each  awakening,  a  new  power 
comes — a  new  joy — a  new  hill-range  crossed  to 
ward  the  Father's  House;  with  each  awakening, 
the  beloved  within  is  quickened  in  consciousness, 
and  the  beloved  without  is  held  more  dear.  The 
wondrous  story  of  regeneration  goes  on  and  on,  to 
the  love  that  seeks  to  give  itself  utterly.  To  love 
— that  is  all  the  Soul  asks. 

Momentary  passion  swiftly  passes  in  the  in 
crease  of  spiritual  aspiration.  Its  force  is  not 
killed,  but  used  for  awakening  the  higher  and 
immortal  principles  where  real  love  abides.  The 
hand  of  the  loved  one  becomes  sacred  unto  tears, 
and  the  joy  of  life  is  to  serve. 

The  whole  body  is  presently  rcpolarised — the 
[265] 


THE      H  I  V  F 

fire  sparking  upward — the  apex  of  the  triangle 
turned  upward — desire  of  soul  instead  of  desire 
of  the  body.  .  .  .  The  mating  of  the  mind  and 
the  soul  is  the  larger,  the  cosmic  consciousness, 
awaited  so  long.  This  means  that  the  Lord  has 
come  into  His  Temple — the  body  made  ready.  It 
means  that  the  mind  and  soul  are  one,  the  house 
no  longer  divided  against  itself.  The  lover  is 
ready  for  the  approach  of  his  mate.  Each  has 
been  cleansed  at  the  fountains  apart.  .  .  . 

One  must  be  utterly  weary  of  the  old.  This 
repolarisation  of  the  generative  force  cannot  come 
until  one  has  heard  with  furious  passion,  in  the 
depths  of  pain,  the  call  to  the  higher  life,  the 
new  quest.  Not  repression  then,  but  transmuta 
tion.  One  changes  gently,  often  under  a  mystic 
administry,  but  always  with  growing  love  for 
the  body  and  for  the  world,  using  the  life 
forces  for  healing  and  concentration  and  the  power 
to  listen  to  the  Lord  within — the  Voice  of  the 
Silence.  .  .  .  Upon  the  illumination  of  the  seven 
centres  by  the  life  force,  another  mystery  takes 
place.  The  levitation  of  the  spiritual  life  over 
powers  to  a  considerable  extent  the  natural  gravi 
tation  of  the  flesh — the  down-pull  of  years.  The 
result,  of  course,  is  the  restoration  of  health  to  all 
tissues  of  the  body — the  Fountain  of  Youth  starts 
singing  again.  ...  To  you. 


[266] 


25 

ROMANCE 


AFFAIRS  like  these  can  only  colour  and 
illumine  the  upper  side  of  the  clouds, 
so  far  as  American  fiction  is  con 
cerned.  One  might  write  a  real  novel 
of  Regeneration,  but  the  field  of  the  story  is  not 
now  for  this;  the  arteries  through  which  the  pub 
lic  is  reached  by  the  publisher  are  not  yet  friendly 
to  such  a  novel.  We  learn  at  Stonestudy  to  write 
what  we  please,  but  we  are  content  with  still 
small  answers,  at  least  for  a  time.  We  have 
ceased  trying  to  force  people  to  see  the  thing  as 
we  see  it.  For  money  to  live  by,  to  take  our 
places  comfortably  in  travel  or  sequestration,  we 
retain  the  handicraft  to  write  for  markets  that 
pay.  We  keep  in  touch  with  the  world — that  is 
practical  mysticism.  We  rejoice  in  the  dense 
pressures  and  tortures  of  world  traffic.  This  is 
very  calmly  told,  as  it  should  be.  My  young  as 
sociates  learn  it  easily,  performing  the  actions 
thereof,  but  for  me,  many  years  were  required. 
[267] 


THE      HIVE 

Long  ago  I  wrote  a  novel  about  a  man  and 
woman  coming  to  a  fervent  agreement  to  remain 
apart  for  a  year  before  their  mating,  in  order  that 
they  array  themselves  in  fuller  glory  for  each 
other,  so  that  each  day  each  would  find  the  other 
more  wonderful  than  yesterday.  The  novel  fur 
nished  much  adventure  in  the  intervening  year, 
otherwise  it  would  have  been  still-born.  What 
was  the  real  theme  to  me  apparently  wasn't  noted 
at  all.  Yet  separation  is  as  essential  as  compan 
ionship  for  the  real  Romance.  A  man  who  does 
life  in  a  book  must  know  this  much,  even  if  he 
use  his  knowledge  sparingly.  It's  all  a  laugh  in 
the  higher  workmanship.  Romance — each  has 
his  idea  of  that.  Each  does  his  best  by  that. 
Here's  a  document  of  the  day  from  John  which 
gives  his  idea  very  well: 

Since  I  was  first  with  Steve  and  Fred  and  Ir 
ving  and  Shuk,  I  have  had  the  great  sense  of  want 
ing  to  be  out  and  away  from  the  world — to  be 
with  them  one  at  a  time.  In  the  Rockies  or  in 
the  misty  isles  of  the  sea!  All  of  them  have  a 
different  meaning  and  sense.  One  will  mean  the 
Rockies  or  the  misty  mountain,  saddels,  foamy 
bits  and  lathering  horses.  Another  will  mean  the 
tarry  smell  of  the  hold  of  a  ship,  the  flapping  of 
sails  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  smell  of  black  cof 
fee  coming  up  from  the  galleys.  Another  will 
mean  the  sun  betin  desert — camels,  and  men 
stooping  over  a  fire.  They  are  all  my  comrads. 

[268] 


ROMANCE 


Fred  is  a  young  sea-writer.  We  are  great  pals. 
We  yousto  go  down  and  lie  in  the  sand,  read,  talk 
and  meditate;  then  a  little  later  we  would  take 
exercise  and  a  long  swim,  then  rub  each  'other 
down.  They  were  wounderful  days — those.  I 
got  right  to  the  heart  of  Fred,  and  he  did  to  me. 
He  yousto  come  over  at  night  and  sleep  with  me. 
Those  were  the  nights !  I  got  so  attached  to  him, 
but  we  had  to  go  apart.  He  is  in  New  York 
now,  going  to  college,  and  I  am  here  in  California. 
It  does  not  seem  right  for  me  to  be  in  this  God 
blest  place  in  the  Youneverse,  and  he  in  the 
slums  of  the  world,  going  to  college.  But  it  is  the 
Plan,  or  it  would  not  *be  this  way. 

The  new  race  will  stay  high  all  through  part 
ings  ;  then  they  cannot  last  long — for  there  is  noth 
ing  to  stay  away  for.  When  pain  leaves,  then 
all  will  be  ready  for  the  road  and  the  great  com- 
rads,  horses  and  the  road  of  greatness.  It  is  all 
ahead.  In  the  great  future — all  ahead — my  com- 
rads — all  comrads — the  world  will  be  all  com- 
rads ! 

All  our  days,  as  tellers  of  tales,  we  try  to  tell, 
not  stories,  so  much,  as  what  Romance  means  to 
us.  The  very  glory  of  life  is  that  there  are  no 
two  pictures  the  same.  ...  To  me,  Romance 
means  not  to  stay!  It  was  hard  to  learn.  Not  to 
tarry  in  the  senses,  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
to  know  the  full  beauty  of  the  senses.  One  must 
not  miss  his  train;  one  must  not  linger  after 
[269] 


THE      HIVE 

curfew  has  sounded.  There  is  no  grey  confront 
ing  of  misery — like  that  of  meeting  one's  own 
commonness  catching  up. 

It's  stiff  grade  work  all  the  way,  but  there  are 
heroic  moments.  We  learn  to  take  a  supernal, 
rather  than  a  sensuous  joy.  The  most  rending  of 
lovers  is  the  most  passionate  saint.  .  .  .  When 
Mohammed  finally  got  his  morals  in  working 
order,  the  desert  was  said  to  be  full  of  slain.  .  .  . 

There  is  something  to  do  with  martyrdom  in 
my  dream  of  Romance  in  later  years.  All  pain 
and  fear  has  gone  out  of  that  word — a  singing 
about  it.  The  name  Kuru  ful  Ayn  comes  to  my 
mind  in  thoughts  of  Romance — "Consolation  of 
the  Eyes,"  martyred  soon  after  the  Forerunner 
Bab  had  been  shot  in  Tabriz.  I  cannot  tell  why 
exactly,  save  that  she  had  beauty  that  had  turned 
to  loveliness,  and  many  men  had  looked  through 
the  door  of  heaven  in  her  eyes — some  haunting 
mystery  there  of  beauty  and  bestowal — the  blend 
ing  perhaps  of  the  love  of  man  and  God  in  the 
same  woman-heart,  passion  lifted  remotely  above 
the  common  rules  of  life,  transcending  every  man- 
made  institution. 

One  of  the  Little  Girl's  ideas  of  Romance  is 
a  hill  cabin,  an  open  door  to  the  dusk, — baby 
heads  weaving  under  her  hands — warm  air  com 
ing  up  from  the  valleys,  but  his  step  not  coming 
that  night.  .  .  .  Here  is  a  suggestion  from  one 
of  her  letters : 

[270] 


ROMANCE 


Have  just  been  out  in  the  garden  planting  lit 
tle  seeds  that  will  grow  big  and  strong  so  that 
they  can  be  put  into  shining  pots  and  cooked  for 
the  Stranger's  dinner — tiny  carrot  seeds.  They 
had  to  be  rolled  over  and  over  between  the  fingers 
before  they  could  decide  one  by  one  to  fall  into  the 
rich  warm  earth.  Planting  little  seeds  at  sunset ! 
Does  it  not  awaken  in  you  something  of  the  old 
days  we  spent  so  close  to  the  soil?  Radiant 
dusk?  But  you  have  to  look  back  to  see  how 
sweet  the  purity  and  simplicity  of  the  peasant's 
life.  The  peasants  themselves  do  not  know. 
To-day  holy  hot  sunlight  and  lilac  bloom — could 
there  be  a  more  wonderful  day  than  that?  And 
Chapel  so  full  of  power,  then  a  planting  of  little 
seeds  at  sunset.  Ah,  Mary!  I  am  happy  as  I 
dare  to  be  in  a  world  that  is  choking  in  its  own 
blood.  At  least  we  are  open  and  ready  for  any 
work  if  it  is  ours.  We  hold  up  our  arms  asking 
for  hard  and  painful  tasks  that  will  fill  us  with 
that  singing  conquest  that  cries  aloud:  "None 
have  more  pain  to  hold  than  we!"  .  .  .  We  are 
all  working-  toward  you,  toward  that  height. 
You  will  be  waiting  for  us  with  open  arms  out 
there.  We  all  send  white  love  to  you — our  wait 
ing  Mary! 

Peasants  and  mill-girls,  or  the  dim  lacking  faces 
of  the  passers-by — always  these  join  to  the  Little 
Girl's  quests  and  dreams  of  the  spirit.  Two  brief 
additional  cuttings  suggestive  of  her  idea  of  Ro 
mance  follow,  from  the  twelve-year  period: 
[271] 


THE      HIVE 


The  first  great  vision  of  the  quest  must  come  to 
a  soul  over  the  plough,  in  the  peasant's  body — 
dissatisfaction  with  self  and  surroundings.  This 
is  the  beginning  of  everything.  The  person  who 
is  content  with  small  things,  small  thoughts,  does 
not  move.  His  soul  stays  asleep.  With  awak 
ening  comes  hate  and  anger  and  much  simple 
blackness.  It  is  just  that,  which  gives  him  the 
power  to  stand  up  against  the  ways  he  has  known 
so  long — to  stand  up  for  himself — to  push  the 
new  vague  dreams  through  to  life  and  light.  It 
is  all  blind  at  first,  but  great  and  brave,  too.  The 
call  that  would  come  to  the  peasant  would  be  to 
the  Town — to  many  men  and  things,  for  that  is 
just  the  opposite  from  his  life.  In  a  simple  way 
he  would  go  to  the  depths  of  the  worst  he  could 
find — to  the  extreme. 

The  thing  that  is  holding  so  many  from  their 
own,  is  contentedness,  satisfaction.  The  longer 
one  holds  to  this,  the  lower  he  sinks,  until  he  is 
buried  in  himself.  .  .  .  The  questers  who  have 
come  up  into  the  light,  are  brilliant,  flashing, 
beautiful.  But  the  souls  of  the  "white  torrent" 
are  rushing  on  through  the  dark  night,  a  night 
that  grows  darker  and  darker  as  it  approaches  the 
day.  Their  faces  a.re  tragic,  drawn,  expectant; 
there  is  a  sort  of  red-dark  cloud  that  they  are  tear 
ing  themselves  through.  .  .  .  Only  the  poor  fat 
ones!  they  fill  you  with  sadness  because  you  can 
not  help  them  and  they  are  not  trying  to  help 
themselves.  They  seem  to  sink  almost  visibly, 
farther  and  farther  down,  as  they  laugh  and 
[272] 


ROMANCE 


smile,  and  nod  their  heads  to  each  other  (only  to 
each  other).  The  light  around  them  is  really  not 
a  light  at  all — just  a  colour,  a  cold,  grey-black 
colour  that  looks  almost  dead.  You  could  laugh 
if  they  had  anything  to  do  with  you,  any  power 
over  you — you  could  laugh  at  them  and  tell  them 
that  you  were  laughing,  b»:t  their  helplessness 
hurts  you.  They  can  only  hurt  themselves. 
There  is  absolutely  no  humour  in  their  faces  nor 
in  any  of  their  movements.  They  are  all  sober; 
they  can  not  laugh  inside.  Always  it  is  the 
sign  of  flight  from  God  to  lose  the  sense  of  hu 
mour.  For  humour  is  a  great  inner  glowing — 
the  power  to  overlook,  to  forget  the  meaner  things 
in  people  and  in  life.  It  is  a  power  to  forget 
one's  self  also,  to  laugh  at  oneself.  ...  I  see  the 
New  Race  as  a  line  of  Classic  Ruffians — a  Troop 
of  Mystic  Warriors  .  .  .  singing  their  glorious 
song  of  stern  compassion  and  deep  love,  filling 
all  with  their  questing  for  power  and  beauty. 
...  I  hear  their  laughter." 

She  paints  the  City  Street  a  bit  darker  in  this : 

Dim  faces,  full  of  blank  suffering  and  of  living 
death.  Dark  and  noisy  streets,  crowded  stores  of 
trade.  .  .  .  Men — little  men,  following  their 
women,  carrying  the  babies.  The  mother  part  of 
me  goes  out  to  those  little  men.  Down  the  ages, 
mothering  imprints  its  pain  upon  our  souls.  And 
their  women  now — with  faces  wanting,  always 
wanting,  everything  in  them  wanting!  I  have 
been  carried  away  by  these  dim  hungry  faces.  I 
[273] 


THE      HIVE 

have  seen  them  staring  at  me  with  blank  surprise. 
But  then  they  hurry  on,  and  the  forgotten  babies 
cry.  Hushing  them,  the  women  pass — little  men 
following. 

.  .  .  The  pain  of  utter  isolation — somehow  this 
means  Romance  to  me,  in  a  deeper  fold  of  being. 
Isolation — the  hate  of  an  undivided  people — a 
man  standing  alone  against  his  nation,  yet  loving 
it  better  than  any  of  the  natives.  ...  I  remem 
ber  in  an  early  story  of  having  the  hero  do  his 
big  task  under  the  fiery  stimulus  of  the  hate  of 
London.  All  this  has  something  to  do  with  the 
coming  of  Saviours. 

Time  approaches  for  many  when  the  little  three 
score  and  ten  fails  longer  to  hold  the  full  story; 
one  must  look  out  of  this  sickly  warm  room  of  the 
body;  one  longs  for  the  mystic  death,  which  is 
martyrdom.  ...  I  tell  all  this  from  time  to  time 
in  tales — but  only  the  children  seem  to  under 
stand.  .  .  . 

Romance — I  have  walked  up  and  down  streets 
and  open  highways  for  days  and  found  no  man's 
work  challenging,  nothing  to  keep  alive  my  in 
terest.  I  wanted  absolutely  nothing  that  any  one 
else  in  the  world  had,  nothing  that  any  one  could 
gain.  All  worldly  activities  looked  diminished 
and  pathetic  to  me — but  under  it  all — the  endless 
iteration  of  the  Soul :  "Here  is  a  man — as  much 
jne  as  myself!"  A  call  in  that — always  a  call 
[274] 


ROMANCE 


in  that.  One  longs  to  die  for  that,  once  and  for 
all. 

I  crossed  the  Yellow  Sea  with  a  wound  long 
ago.  I  had  missed  a  battle  and  was  suffering, 
without  the  satisfaction  of  suffering  with  a  bullet 
wound.  ...  I  lay  three  deep  in  Chinese  coolies 
in  deck  passage.  I  wanted  to  see  some  one  at 
home,  or  I  should  have  dropped  overside.  In  the 
fag  of  pain,  on  the  border  of  delirium,  I  lay  with 
the  deep  down  men  of  the  world,  Chinese  coolies 
in  their  filth  and  vomit.  I  looked  into  the  eyes 
of  the  nearest,  and  saw  a  brother,  not  a  stran 
ger.  ...  It  was  ten  years  afterward  before  I 
caught  the  big  meaning  of  that  moment — and 
that's  why  I  say  so  often  that  the  time  comes  when 
we  find  the  sons  of  God  in  the  eyes  of  passing  men. 
That  is  Romance. 

There  is  more  of  death  and  less  of  days  in  my 
dream  of  Romance  now.  ...  I  can  see  a  man 
giving  up  his  woman  because  she  is  dearer  than 
his  own  life  to  him.  I  can  see  a  man  going  to  the 
scaffold  for  a  country  that  is  taking  his  life  and 
hers.  (Always  I  see  him  loving  his  country  more 
dearly  than  the  sober  ones  of  regnancy  and  war.) 
...  I  see  him  taking  his  woman  in  his  hands — 
half  laughing,  half  crying,  their  faces  up-turned 
— one  creature  in  that  moment  of  parting,  as 
they  had  never  been  in  street  or  church,  or 
state.  .  .  .  Romance  in  that. 

I  have  a  line  here  from  the  Valley  Road  Girl : 
[275] 


THE      HIVE 

.  .  .  Lastly,  it  came  like  a  commandment  to 
me — to  give  all  to  the  Coming  Generation — to 
acknowledge  the  New  Race  as  one's  God — remem 
bering  always  that  all  Gods  are  jealous  Gods." 

It's  all  in  that,  our  dream  of  Romance — De 
mocracy,  the  Planetary  Hive. 

I  am  using  a  short  story  as  the  next  chapter, 
because  it  brings  nearer  to  the  centre  of  the 
picture  certain  ideals  of  romance,  workmanship, 
martyrdom,  love  and  death,  than  many  essays 
could  do.  A  tale  may  be  a  master-synthesis.  Per 
haps  it  is  just  the  thing  to  show  you  what  we 
mean,  as  a  group, — what  we  mean  about  many 
things.  This  is  not  a  marketable  tale;  in  fact,  it 
was  done  with  the  idea  of  making  a  place  for 
itself  just  here  in  this  book. 


'[276] 


26 

THE  COSMIC  PEASANT 

A  SHORT  STORY 

WHEN  I  was  a  lad  I  remember 
hearing  some  one  say  he  had  read 
a  story  of  love  and  war.  I 
thought  of  it  just  now,  as  I  lay 
panting  a  bit  in  a  queer  nest  for  the  night  in 
the  Galbraudin  Foothills — in  the  midst  of  an 
army  that  had  no  country  yet — a  tragic  docu 
ment  unfolding  in  my  heart.  ...  A  story  of 
love  and  war — yes,  I  had  seen  one.  It  was  writ 
ten  upon  the  cells  of  my  brain,  the  deeper  parts 
engraved  upon  the  heart — the  old  red  war  with 
a  new  dream  hovering  above  it,  and  the  old  true 
love,  white  as  ever,  yet  a  touch  of  the  rose  and 
gold  of  the  new  race  in  its  folds.  It  seems  almost 
my  story.  Like  Job's  servant,  only  I  am  spared  to 
tell  it.  Such  a  little  while  ago,  I  thought  the 
tales  of  love  and  war  all  told. 

I  saw  Varsieff  first  at  school,  and  went  to  him 
[277] 


THE      HIVE 

at  once.  Literally,  I  went  to  him.  It  was  at  re 
cess,  and  I  followed  at  his  heels  to  his  room  in 
stead  of  my  own.  He  was  not  surprised.  I  was 
always  at  my  best  beside  him.  He  accepted  this 
gift  from  me.  One  who  learns  to  give  greatly  as 
Varsieff  did,  learns  also  to  accept  the  best  things 
with  grace.  I  only  left  his  room  long  enough  to 
get  my  bag.  Gladly  would  I  have  slept  at  his 
door,  but  he  asked  me  in.  We  were  to  be  mates. 
Often  he  assured  me  that  we  were  men,  face  to 
face;  that  I  was  not  his  Boswell,  not  his  disciple, 
but  a  man-to-man  friend.  Yet  I  knew  that  my 
power  was  not  the  power  of  Varsieff,  also  that  I 
was  most  powerful  when  I  realised  his  splendid 
superiority. 

I  followed  him  during  all  the  vacations.  He 
loved  the  North  Country — snow  on  the  moun 
tains,  cold  night  rains,  the  filled  fields  and 
shrunken  rivers  of  summer,  the  sound  and  natural 
things.  He  said  he  would  find  his  tropical  island 
when  his  work  was  done,  but  that  work  meant 
Russia  to  him.  He  was  genius.  Every  one  loved 
him.  One  vacation  time  we  undertook  to  walk 
together  over  the  Torqueval  Peaks.  He- borrowed 
a  guitar  at  a  peasant  house  there  in  the  mountains, 
and  played  for  an  hour  as  I  have  never  heard 
any  one  play.  I  had  been  with  him  for  almost 
three  years  and  had  not  known  he  touched  the 
instrument. 

In  one  of  those  days  of  our  walking-tour  in  the 
[278] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

mountains  an  instance  occurred  of  Varsieff's  im 
measurable  tenderness  of  heart.  One  golden  morn 
ing  as  we  walked  through  a  little  village,  past  a 
vined  wicker  fence — a  huge  yellow  cat  sprang 
forth  from  the  leaves  and  caught  a  bird  on  the 
wing.  A  kind  of  sob  came  from  my  friend  at  the 
swift  little  tragedy  enacted  in  the  wonderful 
morning  light.  I  turned — Varsieff's  face  was  back 
to  its  childhood — a  depiction  of  childish  horror — 
all  finished  manhood  erased. 

Many  times  in  our  talk  his  sentences  formed  a 
poem,  which  I  would  rush  away  to  put  down. 
He  learned  to  do  this  alone  afterward.  Once  I 
went  to  his  room  in  Moscow  after  I  had  been  away 
several  months,  and  found  scattered  among  cloth 
ing,  papers,  books  and  tea-things,  a  set  of  recent 
lyrical  gems  of  his.  These  I  gathered  together 
in  the  little  book,  now  marching  around  the  world. 

I  smile  to  remember  when  I  came  to  learn  that 
Varsieff  had  other  friends  as  devoted  as  I.  It 
hurt  at  first;  I  could  not  understand.  His  big 
magic  then  was  that  he  wanted  nothing.  He  used 
to  say  that  a  man  is  at  his  worst  when  he  wants 
anything  for  himself.  The  fact  is  Varsieff  in 
wanting  the  letter  of  nothing,  really  wanted  the 
spirit  of  all;  in  wanting  nothing  for  himself  in 
those  days,  he  wanted  everything  for  the  world,  a 
new  heaven  and  a  new  earth,  first  and  especially 
a  new  Russia.  Then  the  day  came  when  he 
wanted  a  woman.  This  was  altogether  unex- 
[279] 


THE      HIVE 

pected.  I  thought  that  Varsieff  absolutely  had 
given  himself  to  the  revolution — that  humanity 
was  his  bride. 

I  was  with  him  when  he  first  saw  Paula  Man- 
tone — that  is  but  part  of  her  name.  It  was  in 
Moscow.  His  voice,  as  he  spoke  to  me,  watching 
her,  had  a  different  and  deeper  inflection  than  I 
ever  heard  before.  She  was  just  a  girl — poorly 
dressed,  who  had  paused  to  speak  laughingly  to  an 
old  flower-woman. 

"Wait,  Lange,"  he  said  to  me,  and  crossed  to 
her. 

It  was  in  the  Spring  of  the  year.  The  morning 
was  very  bright.  She  turned  from  the  tray  of 
flowers  and  looked  up  at  him.  His  hands  went 
out  to  her  shoulders.  He  was  searching  her  face 
with  a  queer  and  tense  smile — as  one  who  finds 
a  woman  after  a  few  months'  separation  in  one 
whom  he  has  left  a  child.  Of  course,  my  thought 
was  that  he  had  known  her  before.  She,  too, 
would  have  slept  at  his  door.  .  .  . 

I  heard  their  voices.  He  asked  her  name,  where 
she  lived,  and  how  he  could  reach  her  again.  It 
all  seemed  trifling  to  me.  Varsieff  had  never  been 
like  this  before.  The  rest  of  the  day  he  was  silent. 
We  walked  and  dined  together,  but  his  thoughts 
were  not  for  me.  For  once,  they  were  not  for 
Russia.  There  was  a  smile  in  his  eyes,  and  often 
he  turned  back  the  way  we  had  come.  Once  he 
said: 

[280] 


THE     COSMIC     PEASANT 

"I  had  to  leave  her.  It  was  quite  all  I  could 
stand.  I  do  not  think  the  world  is  a  place  for  two 
such  people  to  be  happy  in.  Possibly,  we  may 
be  allowed  to  meet  from  time  to  time " 

I  was  inclined  to  call  this  nonsense.     A  little 

> 

later  he  added  strangely : 

"Yes,  it  would  be  dangerous  to  let  go  and  be 
come  merely  human  in  a  case  like  this." 

The  next  three  years  Varsieff  and  I  were  much 
apart.  I  do  not  profess  quite  to  understand  the 
obstacles  between  him  and  Paula  Mantone.  They 
had  loved  each  other  instantly  and  torrentially. 
They  were  much  together,  yet  there  was  some 
super-human  torture  about  it.  Even  if  I  have  a 
glimpse  of  the  mystery,  I'm  afraid  few  will  under 
stand.  There  is  something  back  of  each  one  of 
us  greater  than  our  actions.  We  are  all  greater 
than  we  seem.  It  was  as  if  Varsieff  and  Paula 
Mantone  were  only  intended  to  meet  here — to 
meet  and  quicken  each  other  for  a  greater  giving 
to  the  world.  I  wonder  if  it  is  quite  true,  what 
he  said  toward  the  last:  That  really  splendid 
lovers  may  consecrate  themselves  to  each  other, 
but  they  must  also  learn  to  give  each  other  to  the 
world.  ...  In  the  beginning  they  tried  to  lose 
themselves  in  each  other,  and  they  encountered  un- 
tellable  pain. 

At  length  came  the  night  when  Varsieff  returned 
to  my  lodgings,  saying  that  it  was  only  a  ques- 
[281] 


THE      HI  V  E 

tion  of  time  when  they  should  find  peace.  He 
said  he  knew  they  would  find  peace,  for  he  had 
already  touched  it  momentarily.  I  wondered  if 
she  were  dead,  and  he  caught  my  thought. 

"No,  Lange,"  he  said.  "I  am  still  to  see  her 
from  time  to  time." 

Before  that  first  meeting  with  Paula  Mantone 
in  the  street,  Varsieff  had  loved  Russia  and  the 
world,  a  friend  and  comrade  to  me  and  to  many 
others.  All  his  love  had  suddenly  been  called  in 
and  directed  upon  the  woman.  After  the  three 
years,  he  gave  himself  to  all  of  us  again — but  a 
quickened  illuminated  man.  He  had  been  bril 
liant  to  me  before  that,  but  the  brilliance  of  phos 
phorous  compared  to  sunlight  now.  Varsieff  was 
making  some  strange  spiritual  initiation  out  of  his 
love  story.  His  presence  glorified  me  on  the  night 
of  his  coming — the  summer  before  the  war. 

"There  are  four  layers  to  Russia,"  I  remember 
him  saying.  "The  royalty  on  top,  then  the  dream 
ers,  then  the  middlemen,  then  the  peasants.  Kings 
and  middlemen  go  together;  dreamers  and  peas 
ants  go  together.  .  .  .  Yes,  time  will  come  when 
the  dreamers  and  the  peasants  truly  shall  belong 
to  each  other.  They  have  been  lovers  a  long 
time." 

I  asked  him  about  the  other  pair. 

"The  kings  and  the  middlemen  will  cancel  each 
other,"  he  answered. 

[282] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

Varsieff  was  the  most  active  man  I  ever  knew, 
and  yet  he  moved  easily  as  one  in  a  sort  of  spiritual 
drift.  He  was  an  intellectualist  with  those  who 
used  their  heads,  a  devotionalist  with  those  who 
used  their  hearts,  a  mystic  among  dreamers,  a 
child  among  children.  Though  never  known  much 
publicly,  he  was  to  my  mind  the  biggest  occult 
force  of  the  new  Russia.  I  doubt  if  there  was 
another  man,  unless  it  was  Christonal,  who  gave 
more  impulse  and  direction  to  the  revolutionary 
movement. 

The  heads  of  many  departments  drew  inspira 
tion  from  Varsieff.  I  have  seen  him  carry  him 
self  lightly  through  a  day  of  decisions  and  im 
provements  and  conceptions,  which  do  not  come 
to  the  ordinary  master  of  democracy  in  a  year.  I 
have  seen  him  encounter,  worked  out  by  others, 
suggestions  and  innovations  which  he  himself  had 
made — Varsieff  not  realising  that  the  thought  was 
his  own.  He  would  innocently  praise  his  own 
work,  as  carried  out  by  another.  The  last  few 
months  preceding  the  revolution  were  the  busiest 
I  ever  knew.  We  became  new  men.  We  did  not 
leave  Petrograd,  but  prepared  secretly  for  the 
big  unburdening  of  the  soul  of  a  people.  The 
last  few  days,  before  the  government  changed 
hands,  were  charged  with  a  wrecking  silence. 

Christonal's  nerve  broke.  For  twelve  hours  he 
was  in  and  out  of  a  system  of  baths  and  manhan- 
dlings,  and  I  was  one  who  stood  by.  Varsieff 
[283] 


THE      HIVE 


smiled  it  through,  his  voice  calm,  his  eyes  often 
looking  away  as  he  spoke.  The  leaders  of  the 
younger  party  saw  who  was  the  real  chief  that 
day,  though  Christonal  is  a  strong  leader. 

I  was  always  a  good  desk  man,  and  was  trying 
to  get  some  order  in  a  bundle  of  cipher  messages 
in  the  heat  of  the  night,  when  Varsieff  came  and 
lifted  me  laughingly  by  the  shoulders,  thrusting 
the  messages  into  one  of  my  deep  inner  pockets. 
I  thought  he  was  dragging  me  off  to  bed,  but  when 
we  were  alone,  he  said: 

"She  is  near.  I  can't  leave.  Will  you  go  to  her 
forme?"  .  .  . 

He  told  me  many  things  to  say. 

I  found  Paula  Mantone  after  many  hours  in 
one  of  the  Registmonten  hospitals.  She  was  frail 
and  feverish  from  much  labour,  not  regularly  at 
tached  to  any  nursing  staff.  The  instant  I  saw 
her,  I  realised  more  clearly  what  Varsieff  had 
been  doing — trying  to  kill  himself  with  work  for 
the  Cause.  Clearly,  she  had  lost  interest  in  all 
but  death  and  service.  I  had  been  too  much 
with  Varsieff  to  notice  his  arrival  at  the  same 
point,  but  I  saw  their  joint  endeavour  through 
her.  It  seemed  to  me  like  a  death-pact. 

A  new  mystery  for  me.  Evidently  they  had 
realised  they  must  wait  for  release  in  death,  but 
serve  meanwhile.  The  marvel  of  Varsieff's  send 
ing  me  when  he  might  have  come  himself,  gave  me 
just  an  inkling  of  the  tremendous  power  and  pa- 
[284] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

tience  which  had  come  to  him.  Two  years,  or 
even  a  year  ago,  he  would  have  endangered  new 
Russia  for  an  hour  with  Paula  Mantone. 

I  could  not  breathe  this  rare  atmosphere.  So 
far  as  I  knew,  there  was  no  woman  for  me  in 
earth  or  heaven,  but  certainly  I  would  not  have 
been  able  to  look  over  a  living  woman's  shoulder 
for  her  mystic  counterpart,  and  long  for  death 
to  consummate  the  real  mating.  But  war  teaches 
lovers  many  wonderful  things. 

Paula  Mantone  was  a  kind  of  white  silence. 
You  had  to  listen  keenly  for  her  step  and  give 
your  attention  to  her  voice.  She  was  utterly 
feminine — malleable  like  gold.  Even  to  me,  she 
was  the  meaning  of  love.  I  had  no  thought  of 
her  being  my  woman,  and  yet  she  seemed  spirit 
ually  to  contain  some  sister  who  would  answer 
for  me.  Soldiers  worshipped  her.  I  think  each 
saw  his  own  in  her  presence.  It  was  the  finished 
magic  of  the  Trojan  Helen  again — every  man's 
desire,  as  gold  contains  potentially  all  the  metals, 
and  the  rose  the  essence  of  all  the  flowers.  .  .  . 

She  was  the  quietest  woman  I  ever  saw.  She 
seemed  formed  of  white  cloud — the  sun  on  the 
other  side.  That  was  it — Varsieff  was  shining  on 
the  other  side.  She  answered  him,  light  for  light 
— gold  for  gold.  For  the  rest  of  us,  she  had  that 
white,  saintly  lustre.  And  even  in  that,  we  found 
much  to  make  us  brave  and  keep  us  pure. 

Deep  within,  there  was  some  wonder  about 
[285] 


THE     HIVE 

Varsieff  and  Paula  Mantone  which  my  brain 
could  not  interpret  exactly.  But  the  world  had 
suddenly  become  to  me,  in  her  presence,  a  place 
of  divided  hearts — millions  of  divided  lovers 
around  the  world.  I  had  only  known  the  shock 
and  misery  of  war  before,  and  the  thrilling  roar 
of  comrades,  the  crash  of  the  wreckers  and  the 
songs  of  the  builders  ever  nearer.  Now  I  heard 
the  still  voices  of  lovers  everywhere.  In  the  pres 
sures  of  air — callings,  cryings,  yearnings  made 
audible. 

It  was  a  new  door  of  the  heart  that  she  opened 
— her  particular  gift  to  me.  That  moment, 
though  I  had  loved  and  served  Varsieff  for  years, 
I  knew  more  thrillingly  than  ever  his  greatness, 
because  this  woman  loved  him.  To  me,  to  all  sol 
diers,  she  gave  a  reflection  of  that  superb  bounty. 
To  him  she  gave  its  incandescence.  Perhaps  to 
gether  they  found  it  too  terrible  a  light  for  earth, 
or  perhaps  they  were  unwilling  to  find  their  ful 
ness  of  days  in  a  world  so  charged  with  agony  as 
these  years. 

She  left  me  a  moment,  answering  some  voice 
which  I  had  not  heard,  and  stood  for  several  sec 
onds  beside  the  cot  of  a  bearded  soldier,  her  fin 
gers  upon  his  grey-white  brow.  I  did  not  realise 
until  after  she  moved,  that  she  was  there  at  the 
moment  of  his  passing.  I  thought  of  it  again: 
She  was  the  white  silence.  I  think  the  soldier 
died,  believing  that  his  woman  was  there. 
[286] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

Twenty  cots  in  the  place — a  low,  cold  room 
lit  with  a  handful  of  candles.  The  smell  of 
blood  and  sickness  and  soiled  clothing  mingled 
with  the  bitterness  of  iodoform  as  the  chill  draught 
swept  through.  The  peasant  soldiers  knew  only 
the  meagrest  care.  Their  wounds  were  dressed 
as  often  as  possible,  but  there  were  five  times  too 
many  cases  for  the  service,  and  the  whole  corps 
was  impoverished. 

She  stood  still  in  the  dim  distance  a  moment 
longer,  her  fingers  touching  the  brow  already  cold. 
Then  she  seemed  to  remember  that  I  was  waiting 
at  the  far  door.  I  was  not  twenty  feet  away,  and 
yet  in  the  few  seconds  required  for  her  to  reach 
me,  a  sort  of  vision  filled  my  mind — a  vision  of 
the  peace  that  soon  would  come  to  the  world — 
the  song  of  fruitful  labour  sung  again,  peaceful 
lands,  soft  dusks,  lit  cabins,  filled  barns,  peaceful 
flocks  and  up-reaching  baby  fingers — all  with  such 
a  queer  shock  to  a  male  consciousness  like  mine. 
And  when  she  stood  before  me,  I  felt  that  the  best 
part  of  Varsieff  was  also  there.  I  even  fancied  his 
look  in  her  eyes,  such  as  you  see  exchanged  in 
an  old  pair  who  have  lived  long  together.  I 
think  that  a  great  love  always  seeks  to  make  one 
of  two — in  different  ways  than  we  dream. 

"You  came  from  him1?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"How  does  he  look?"  she  asked. 

"He  looks  like  you,"  I  said,  for  the  moment 
[287] 


THE     HIVE 

inspired.  "He  looks  like  a  sun-god,  too.  He 
looks  with  your  love  into  the  eyes  of  soldiers  and 
statesmen  and  revolutionists,  and  they  find  him 
irresistible." 

"Dear  Lange,"  she  said.  "He  loves  you,  too. 
You  are  changed.  You  have  come  into  the  big 
magic  of  the  revolution " 

"I  am  Varsieff's  friend,  first  and  last — his  com 
rade." 

"And  mine,"  she  whispered. 

"The  magic  comes  from  standing  between, 
Mile.  Mantone." 

She  smiled  and  bent  toward  me.  She  had  been 
like  a  tall,  white  flower,  but  now  for  a  second  as 
she  bent  closer,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  a  hint 
of  Varsieff's  gold  flame  on  the  other  side — be 
cause  we  talked  of  him. 

"What  did  he  say*?"  she  continued  in  a  low 
whisper. 

"He  said  to  tell  you  that  he  and  all  your 
friends  were  busy,  day  and  night,  weaving  and 
binding  the  Cause  into  one  great  fabric.  He 
told  me  to  tell  you  this — that  the  work  of  the 
Weavers  will  be  given  to  the  world  in  a  day  or 
two — possibly  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  Varsieff's  face  as  he  spoke 
to  me  this  last.  I  remember  his  words  exactly: 
Tell  Paula  all  that  I  do  is  for  her.  That  I 
read  and  write  and  dream  and  breathe  through 
her  heart — that  she  has  taught  me  well  to  love 
[288] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

and  wait — that  I  love  the  world  through  her 
heart.'  " 

"Anything  more*?"  she  asked  in  a  kind  of  ag 
ony. 

"He  told  me  to  say  that  only  you  knew  his 
weaknesses,  so  far " 

"I  love  them  best,"  she  answered.  "A  woman 
always  holds  a  little  tighter  to  the  sweet  human 
things  of  her  child.  .  .  .  But  he  is  a  teacher,  a 
leader.  He  must  be  clean  and  flawless.  ...  If 
it  were  only  for  us — I  should  have  him,  weaknesses 
and  all.  .  .  .  But  he  is  to  lead  the  clean  peasants 
to  their  promised  land " 

Varsieff  listened  as  a  desert  listens  for  rain. 
He  caught  me  by  the  shoulders  when  I  ceased  to 
speak — as  if  to  shake  something  more  from  my 
mind  and  heart. 

"A  man  must  be  half-divine  to  keep  step  with 
that  woman,"  he  said. 

Then  he  changed  the  subject  by  remarking  that 
Christonal  was  not  half-divine — quite. 

"Christonal  is  ambitious,"  he  added. 

"What  has  he  done  now  9"  I  asked. 

"He  has  ordered  me  to  take  the  field " 

That  turned  on  a  red  light  in  my  brain.  Var 
sieff  was  not  a  soldier.  I  knew  instantly  that 
Christonal  was  not  pure — that  he  wanted  personal 
power  more  than  the  good  of  the  Cause.  No 
one  knew  VarsiefFs  place  better  than  he  did.  My 
[289] 


THE      HIVE 

| 

friend  could  only  have  been  ordered  to  the  field 
for  the  ^ame  reason  that  David  sent  the  husband 
of  Bathsheba. 

After  the  revolutionary  signal  went  through, 
Varsieff  and  I  found  ourselves  in  the  Galbraudin 
Foothills  with  thirty  thousand  men,  and  every 
man  of  them  wanted  to  go  home.  Somehow  the 
peasants  thought  that  if  they  changed  leaders, 
they  would  march  home  at  once.  They  were  will 
ing  to  fight  their  way  home;  they  had  felt  their 
own  power.  Varsieff  loved  them  with  a  white 
passion. 

"They  won't  miss,  if  we  are  true!  They're 
clean.  God  love  them — they're  clean!" 

He  saw  in  the  peasants  the  soil  for  the  new 
earth  and  the  soul  of  the  new  heaven. 

Germans  and  Austrians  were  to  the  south  of 
pur  nest  in  the  Galbraudin  Foothills,  while  to  the 
east  and  north  were  the  big  lines  of  Russian 
troops  as  yet  unawakened  to  the  principles  that 
moved  our  ranks.  Our  weakness  was  that  the 
peasants  thought  the  war  was  over.  .  .  .  The 
cold  mountains  were  in  the  distance — winter  still 
upon  them — a  late  spring  in  the  Foothills.  .  .  . 
In  this  dramatic  lull,  our  men  talked  of  their 
ploughing,  of  their  women. 

Some  one  said,  "They're  enlisting  the  women 
and  girls " 

It  went  through  the  lines  like  a  taint  of  gas. 
[2901 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

The  men  were  difficult  then  even  for  Varsieff  to 
hold. 

You  must  get  the  picture.  We  revolutionists 
were  cut  off  from  the  world.  The  Germans  and 
Austrians  sent  us  messages — some  friendly,  some 
derisive.  They  thought  us  fools  or  gods,  but 
waited  to  see  what  we  would  do.  The  old  line 
of  Russian  troops  all  about — just  as  clean  peas 
antry  as  our  forces — but  officered  by  the  straight 
military  class,  impervious  so  far  as  a  body  to  any 
shaft  of  the  propagandist. 

Varsieff  whispered  to  me  that  those  regular 
forces  were  honeycombed  with  our  comrades,  but 
that  they  were  being  put  to  death  under  the  slight 
est  suspicion — that  two  or  three  hundred  were 
martyred  each  day. 

The  strangeness  and  horror  of  it  all  dawned 
upon  me — the  sense  of  the  whole  world  against 
us,  even  America  from  whom  we  had  drawn  the 
spirit  of  our  courage — a  kind  of  holding  of  our 
army  for  slaughter.  Listen,  I  have  seen  tens 
of  thousands  of  troops  go  down  to  the  pits  of 
white  and  red,  seen  their  opened  veins  colour  the 
snows,  seen  the  spots  of  red  on  the  brown 
earth  turn  black.  I  have  seen  the  boys  lean  over 
the  trenches  and  the  pools  from  each  throat  widen 
and  deepen  from  one  man  to  another.  I  have 
seen  a  man  grab  his  mate  as  he  fell  and  say  some 
absurd  whimsical  thing  that  the  soldier  next  didn't 
understand  until  his  moment  of  death — a  little 


THE      HIVE 

sentence  that  folded  them,  not  in  extinction,  but 
in  a  new  life.  All  the  horrors  of  death — quantity 
and  quality — yellow  and  red  and  white — pure 
white  passings  that  made  a  man  think  of  the  lilies 
— all  manner  of  death  I  had  seen,  and  still  it  had 
all  been  impersonal  compared  to  now. 

This  was  my  own  heart  business.  I  shared 
leadership  with  Varsieff.  These  lives  were  in  my 
hands.  I  wanted  to  go  down  among  the  boys — 
one  by  one  and  say  that  I  was  pure,  that  I  loved 
them — that  if  they  died  they  were  at  least  loved 
and  not  wasted. 

I  always  wondered  what  those  young  peasant 
souls  thought  about  death.  Once  in  a  lot  of  pain 
when  I  was  just  a  boy,  I  wanted  badly  to  die  and 
was  deterred  from  taking  my  life,  because  of  a 
counter-desire  to  get  home  and  see  my  mother. 
I  think  it  must  be  like  that  with  the  peasants. 

VarsiefT  saw  them  in  a  strange  mystic  light. 
No  man  loved  them  as  he  did.  They  looked  like 
sons  of  God  to  him.  That's  what  he  saw  when 
they  went  down  to  death. 

"There  are  no  dreams  too  fine  for  them  to 
answer,"  he  whispered.  "They  are  pure — they 
come  from  the  North  like  all  invaders — glacially 
pure!  We'll  warm  their  hearts — lead  them  home 
to  God — teach  them  how  to  live !" 

He  was  silent  suddenly.  I  asked  him  to  go  on 
and  then  saw  the  queerest  look  instead.  Varsieff 
was  torn  by  the  thought,  that  now  as  a  leader  of 
[292] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 


revolutionists  he  must  teach  his  peasants  how  to 
die  as  well.  ...  A  civilian,  I  repeat,  does  not 
realise  this  quite  the  same.  In  the  Capitol,  we  had 
worked  for  a  Cause  that  meant  the  death  of  men, 
but  now  we  were  the  officers  called  upon  to  charge 
live  troops  to  the  fork  and  the  grill.  I  knew 
Varsieff  to  be  more  imaginative  and  tender  than  I, 
yet  I  would  not  have  mentioned  my  qualms,  had 
I  known  how  terribly  he  was  suffering.  He 
caught  my  hands,  whispering: 

"You  have  it,  too?" 

It  was  the  single  hour  of  weakness  that  Varsieff 
had  ever  revealed  to  me.  I  studied  his  face  with 
out  speaking. 

"I  brought  them  to  this,"  he  muttered.  "I 
have  always  thought  of  the  spirit  of  things.  I  was 
always  pure  enough,  following  that  dream.  .  .  . 
But,  Lange,  we're  a  little  mad — we  who 
dream.  ...  I  had  to  come  here.  I  had  to  see 
this  fighting  end.  Perhaps  Christonal  knew  what 
he  was  doing." 

I  put  my  arm  around  his  shoulder.  We  Rus 
sians  are  allowed  that. 

"I  have  always  thought  of  the  spirit  of  things," 
he  added,  "until  I  met  Paula  Mantone.  I  would 
have  forgotten  everything  for  her  beauty,  but  she 
remembered  our  souls.  .  .  .  And  now,  because  I 
would  have  forgotten  the  bodies  of  these  men 
Christonal  sent  me  here  to  learn  that.  We  are 
spirits  and  bodies,  too,  Lange.  It  takes  a  crowned 
[293] 


THE      HIVE 

head  to  hold  to  the  two  ends  at  once — God,  hear 
'em  sing " 

The  ruffians  always  hushed  and  choked  us  when 
they  sang.  Something  new  about  it  this  time,  for 
Varsieff  was  seeing  them  across  a  red  stream  of 
their  own  blood. 

"I  can't  drive  'em  into  the  fire-pits,"  he  mut 
tered.  "Why,  I'd  rather  wash  and  dress  'em. 
They've  got  the  idea  that  I  am  to  lead  them  home. 
I  can't  betray  that — not  even  for  the  Cause !  .  .  . 
I  never  saw  it  before.  They  are  not  herds,  not 
groups — but  monads — each  a  man " 

"We've  got  to  put  through  the  big  story," 
I  said  quietly.  "Thirty  thousand  is  cheap — our 
little  planting  out  here  is  cheap,  if  we  can  give 
Russia  the  new  heaven  and  the  new  earth — Russia 
— then  America — then  the  world " 

I  was  giving  him  back  his  own  words. 

"Thirty  thousand  lives,"  he  repeated.  "Yes, 
the  price  is  cheap — thirty  thousand  every  day  for 
awhile — your  life  and  mine,  Lange — a  cheap  price 
to  pay  for  the  glory  we  see  in  the  days  to  come. 
But  I  can't  kill  these — I  think  Christonal  knew  it 
all  the  time " 

"You  aren't  ready  for  work  in  the  constructive 

end,  if  you  falter  here  among  the  wreckers " 

I  said. 

I  knew  that  no  Cause  had  ever  uncovered  a 
more  valuable  servant  than  this  same  Varsieff, 
though  badly  out  of  hand  just  now.  I  wasn't 
[294] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

making  any  effect  upon  him.  He  looked  at  me 
strangely. 

"That  sounds  true — exactly  and  unerringly 
true,"  he  said  wearily. 

There  was  no  quarter  possible  now. 

"I  remember  your  words  in  clubs  and  cabinets 
and  in  the  ante-rooms  of  the  dumas.  .  .  .  You 
weren't  afraid  of  blood  there,  VarsiefT." 

He  winced. 

"They  called  you  the  'Fire-eater,'  "  I  added, 
never  knowing  when  to  stop.  "It's  just  as  straight 
to-day  as  it  was  when  you  talked  there:  'The 
old  civilisation  must  be  washed  clean  with  the 
blood  of  the  new '  " 

His  hand  came  up  piteously. 

"But  their  hearts  are  turned  homeward,  Lange," 
he  said.  "Their  eyes  are  building  their  homes 
all  over  again — eyes  turned  homeward  over  the 
mountains " 

"Turned  to  God,"  I  said  reverently. 

"Yes,  but  taking  my  word — the  word  of  Var- 
sieff — that  God  is  there " 

"He  is  there." 

"But  will  He  come  to  them  at  the  last, 
Lange?  .  .  .  Will  He  show  His  face — so  they 
will  believe?  .  .  .  When  they  feel  their  death- 
wounds — the  blood  sliding  out,  warm  and  silent 
— the  cold  coming  in — will  they  hold  to  what  I 
said?  Will  He  be  there  for  them?" 

"You're  shot  up,  old  man,  only  a  bit  bewildered 
[295] 


THE      HIVE 

to-day.  No  one  knows  better  than  you  how  great 
emotional  giving  of  one's  self  to  Cause  or  Coun 
try  makes  death  easy — and  quickens  the  Soul." 

Varsieff  was  ashen. 

"I've  got  to  eat  all  my  words!  Even  you, 
bring  back  my  words  to  me.  I've  talked  too 
much.  .  .  .  Suppose  I  am  a  madman ?" 

"Then  you  have  no  responsibility  for  what  you 
said,"  I  smiled. 

He  stared  at  the  tent-wall. 

"Varsieff,"  I  said  at  last. 

His  hand  came  out. 

"You  were  pure  in  all  you  undertook." 

Silence. 

"You  wanted  nothing  for  yourself." 

"I  wanted  nothing  for  me — nothmg  but " 

"But  what?" 

"Paula  Man " 

"She's  a  part  of  you — now.  You  look  like 
her!" 

"I  think  I'll  have  to  die  to  see  her — Oh,  Lange 
— I'm  sick — I'm  impoverished,  cell  by  cell,  with 

loneliness "  Varsieff  laughed  unsteadily  and 

added : 

"I  remember  asking  you  to  say  to  her — that  she 
alone  knew  my  weaknesses.  Now  you  know  them, 
too." 

"She  said  she  loved  them.  .  .  .  Varsieff,  I  have 
known  you  a  long  time,"  I  added  after  a  moment. 
"I  have  shaped  my  manhood,  such  as  it  is,  after 
[296] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

you.  I  am  proud  of  this — to  the  end.  I,  too,  care 
more  for  you,  because  of  this  day — for  under 
standing.  To  understand — that  is  everything.  I 
who  always  listened  before,  tell  you  to-day :  The 
dream  does  hold.  The  dream  is  good.  Thirty 
thousand  men — even  our  singing,  growling,  big- 
footed,  red-hearted  thirty  thousand — is  a  cheap 
price  to  pay  for  the  new  Russia!" 

"Do  you  think  Paula  would  say  that*?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "from  the  mother-heart  of 
her." 

I  had  spoken,  and  now  I  tried  to  make  myself 
believe  that  she  would  have  ordered  him  on.  I 
had  to  change  him,  at  any  cost.  A  rather  ques 
tionable  way  now  appeared — to  lift  him  out  of 
himself. 

"Listen,  Friend,"  I  added.  "You  are  lonely — 
but  you  have  the  heart  of  a  woman  pulsing  with 
yours — every  beat.  .  .  .  You'd  have  to  be  me 
to  know  what  loneliness  means.  I'd  take  all  the 
pain  to  have  a  woman  like  that.  There  are  times 
when  you  are  half  a  man,  because  you  are  apart 
from  her,  but  there  are  other  times,  Varsieff,  when 
you  are  twice  a  man — double  dynamics " 

He  caught  me  in  his  arms.  I  knew  he  was 
healed,  but  I  felt  the  cad  and  the  cur  for  bring 
ing  his  sympathy  on  myself.  .  .  .  He  was  look 
ing  back  toward  the  cold  mountains  when  I  left 
him,  and  the  look  of  the  woman  was  in  his  eyes. 
[297] 


THE      HIVE 

That  night  I  dreamed  that  Paula  Mantone  came 
to  me  with  a  message  for  Varsieff,  and  that  she 
told  me  some  beautiful  thing  about  the  child  of 
a  king — but  I  could  not  quite  get  it  down  to 
brain. 

Sedgwick,  a  brigadier,  and  technically  in  com 
mand  of  the  thirty  thousand,  was  a  straight  mili 
tarist  in  training.  He  looked  to  Varsieff,  the 
political  head,  for  orders.  The  day  came  when 
Varsieff  had  no  one  to  look  to,  for  we  were  cut 
off  from  Christonal  and  Petrograd.  We  were  not 
long  kept  in  doubt  after  that  as  to  who  were  our 
immediate  enemies — not  German,  not  Austriant 
but  the  old  line  Russian  troops  hung  up  to  the  east 
of  us,  the  same  that  had  recently  occupied  theiih 
selves  making  martyrs  of  the  revolutionists  in  their 
ranks — two  or  three  hundred  a  day. 

It  was  a  red  morning  when  two  of  our  fliers 
blew  down  with  the  word  that  our  brothers  were 
closing  in — that  it  looked  like  extermination  for 
our  thirty  thousand,  unless  we  strode  out  and 
crippled  them  with  the  first  shock.  Ten  miles  to 
the  west  the  Bundalino  Marshes  began.  We  had 
the  secret  paths,  but  it  was  a  wretched  fugitive 
outlook  to  seek  shelter  there.  As  I  looked  at  it, 
it  would  never  occur  to  leaders  who  had  brought 
Russia  to  the  moment  of  parturition,  to  break  up 
for  a  miserable  safety  in  the  swamps  of  Bunda 
lino. 

[298] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 


I  recall  the  distant  firing  of  that  red  morning. 
My  eardrums  had  not  healed  from  recent  months 
more  or  less  in  touch  with  the  artillery.  I  remem 
ber  brushing  the  edge  of  the  lines,  as  I  crossed 
from  Sedgwick's  headquarters  back  to  the  hut 
I  shared  with  Varsieff  and  a  servant  or  two.  The 
peasants  were  listening  queerly  and  quietly  to 
the  far  firing. 

I  passed  through  the  sprawl  of  pup-shelters, 
and  certain  ideas  occurred  to  me:  first,  that  the 
arrangement  of  camp  was  abominable,  a  pitiful 
lack  of  technique  shown  in  this  bit  of  military 
handling;  second,  the  slow  cold  conviction  that 
we,  as  revolutionists,  must  have  all  the  virtues 
of  the  old-line  troops  to  begin  with,  and  to  build 
our  real  greatness  on  top  of  that;  finally  I  drew 
from  the  queer  attitudes  of  the  men  toward  me, 
an  intuitional  flash  that  to  them  the  distant  firing 
meant  a  signal  that  they  were  about  to  fight  their 
way  home. 

Varsieff  was  sitting  dejected  upon  a  camp-chest 
when  I  rejoined  him. 

"Sedgwick  is  ready  when  you  are,"  I  said.  "He 
suggests  that  the  men  be  not  kept  waiting  too 
long." 

Varsieff  looked  up.  His  face  was  livid.  His 
soul  had  no  chance  that  morning.  I  thought  of 
the  old  story  of  Arjuna  standing  between  the  bat 
tle-lines,  reluctant  to  join  action  against  his  own 
kindred. 

[299] 


THE      HIVE 

"It's  the  same  here  that  it  was  in  Petrograd," 
I  announced  finally.  "The  dream  holds " 

He  shook  his  head.  .  .  .  "They  are  just  boys — 
white-haired  boys.  They  want  to  go  home " 

That  instant  I  seemed  to  see  the  world  laugh 
ing  at  this  great  man;  I  saw  the  end  of  Varsieff 
politically.  .  .  .  Superb  genius  broken  down  by 
an  intrinsic  weakness — as  a  man  who,  trying  to 
lead  the  world,  falls  for  the  lure  of  an  actress 
maid.  ...  I  saw  all  his  work  of  early  years — 
straight,  clean,  unerring,  selfless  labour  of  a  man 
to  a  Cause — the  inspired  labour  of  the  past  two 
years  when  he  gave  the  whole  fruit  of  his  quick 
ened  heart  to  the  new  Russia — the  magic  of  a 
man  loved  by  a  woman  great  enough  to  be  his 
divine  sculptor  and  priestess.  ...  It  was  the 
thought  of  Paula  Mantone  that  helped  me  that 
instant.  Sedgwick  was  on  the  path  outside.  I 
hurried  out  and  whispered : 

"Don't  come  now.  Come  back  in  ten  min 
utes " 

The  General  paused  to  let  me  hear  the  firing. 
"But  the  troops "  he  said. 

"Give  me  ten  minutes  more  with  Varsieff " 

"The  attack  may  be  called " 

"I  know,  but  I  need  that  time." 

The  old  soldier  turned  back,  hating  me.  .  .  . 

"Varsieff,"  I  said  a  moment  later. 

"Yes " 

[300] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

"I've  got  to  tell  you  something " 

He  turned  quickly. 

"Paula  Mantone  is  near " 

"No!" 
.    "I  saw  her  last  night." 

"Will  she  see  me?" 

I  laughed  at  him.  "Do  you  think  she  would 
want  to  see  you  now*?  .  .  .  You're  a  sick  man, 
Varsieff — morally  sick.  Any  decision  is  better 
than  your  present  incapacity.  ...  I  think  she 
must  have  sensed  your  weakness — that  she  came 
to  bring  you  strength,  for  she  is  your  strength." 

"Does  she  love  me*?"  he  asked. 

"That's  a  slap  in  her  face  to  ask  that — a  woman 
who  gives  you  her  soul's  strength — the  love  of 
her  life.  That's  lack  of  faith,  my  friend — : — " 

"I  am  whipped.  The  white-haired  boys — they 
want  to  go  home " 

"You  can't  wash  your  hands.  You  can't  say, 
'Go  home,  boys.'  They  have  to  fight  their  way 
home.  First,  they  have  to  fight  their  way  to 
the  east  out  of  this  valley — against  old  Rus 
sia!  ...  It's  the  first  great  battle  of  the  Old  and 
New — first  time  in  the  history  of  the  world.  We 
hold  the  New  for  better  or  worse — this  little 
Theban  band.  You  would  let  us  fail  and  dribble 
away  and  slink  into  the  Marshes — you,  her  lover, 
whom  she  calls  Boy  and  Strongheart " 

"What  did  she  say?"  he  asked  fiercely. 
[301] 


THE      HIVE 

" that  I  need  not  speak  of  her  coming  un 
less  you  needed  help.  She  said  you  would  not 
need  help  on  account  of  your  own  lack  of  cour 
age — rather  that  it  would  be  your  great  tenderness 
that  might  defeat  our  Cause  now.  She  said  this 
was  but  a  last  ordeal,  hardest  of  all  for  Builders, 
who  have  ceased  to  kill. " .  .  ." 

"Where  did  you  see  her?" 

It  was  all  a  lie,  of  course,  except  I  had  dreamed 
of  her  coming.  I  invented  a  place  of  meeting  and 
added  to  his  question  that  Sedgwick  did  not  know 
of  her  presence. 

"I  agreed  that  we  were  not  killers,  but  I  told  her 
that  we  dared  to  be  cruel  to  ourselves,"  I  added. 

"What  did  she  say  to  that?"  Varsieff  asked 
hoarsely.  He  had  suddenly  become  like  a  child 
— one  who  dared  not  go  to  her,  who  scarcely 
trusted  himself  to  speak. 

"She  said  that  was  the  key  to  the  whole  matter 
— that  we  dare  to  sacrifice  ourselves — dare  to 
inflict  pain  upon  each  other  because  one's  true  love 
is  the  self — " 

I  was  startled  and  awed  at  my  own  words.  The 
idea  was  unlike  anything  of  mine.  It  was  exactly 
as  if  she  had  told  me  something  of  the  kind  in  the 
dream.  Varsieff  groaned: 

"The  glory  of  her,"  he  whispered.  "Was  there 
more?" 

"Only  that  you  must  not  falter  now  .  .  .  and 
[302] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 


that  she  would  be  waiting  for  you  at  the  end 
of  the  day " 

"  'In  the  cool  of  the  evening,'  she  would  say," 
he  muttered. 

"Perhaps  that  was  it,"  I  said. 

"Nothing  more*?" 

"Yes — but  only  if  you  needed  it " 

"I  do." 

"That  she  never  loved  you  so  well  as  now — 
that  you  mean  new  Russia  to  her — that  she  will 
come  running  to  you  in  the  cool  of  the  evening — 
either  here  or  on  the  other  side — and  something 
about  the  child  of  a  king." 

His  back  stiffened.  He  arose.  I  saw  him  splen 
did  again.  I  drew  back  in  the  shadow,  afraid 
that  he  would  see  the  sweat  that  had  broken  out 
upon  me,  though  the  place  was  cold. 

Of  course  the  idea,  as  I  saw  it,  was  to  give  the 
old-line  troops  the  fight  of  their  lives — to  show 
the  whole  of  Russia  a  martyrdom  if  necessary, 
thus  revealing  the  temper  of  the  revolutionists. 
Varsieff  had  been  tempted  to  let  them  slip  back 
into  the  Marshes  to  save  their  lives. 

We  were  in  the  saddle  side  by  side  an  hour 
later,  and  close  to  the  front — the  two  big  lines 
moving  slowly  and  craftily  together.  Varsieff 
looked  back  at  his  precious  boys,  following  will 
ingly  enough  so  far. 

"It's  their  white  heads  that  kill  me,"  he  mut- 
[303] 


THE      HIVE 

tered.  "They  are  like  children,  and  that  I 
should " 

"They  are  all  our  children,"  I  answered,  sweep 
ing  my  hand  in  a  circle  ahead  where  the  troops 
of  old  Russia  had  filled  in,  waiting  to  deliver  us 
to  death. 

"Dear  old  Lange,"  he  muttered,  "I'm  glad  you 
know  her " 

I  wondered  what  that  had  to  do  with  his  peas 
ant  children.  Her  spirit  seemed  a  blend  of  his 
every  thought  and  emotion.  .  .  .  We  galloped 
along  the  fronts,  talking  to  the  different  com 
manders.  Some  were  students,  in  their  teens, 
faces  of  boys  who  loved  Varsieff  with  a  love  that 
yearned  to  die  for  him  immediately,  without 
words,  a  readiness  to  leap  under  his  horse's  feet 
...  In  a  kind  of  madness,  all  the  mysteries  of 
life  seemed  to  unfold  for  me  that  morning,  the 
spirit  of  Paula  Mantone  always  near  because  I 
was  so  close  to  her  lover. 

He  talked  to  the  different  leaders  quite  care 
less  if  the  peasant  ranks  'listened.  He  told  them 
that  the  outer  world  was  watching — that  new 
Russia,  Poland,  Finland,  the  new  Europe,  the 
new  World — all  depended  upon  them  now.  He 
said  they  were  chosen  men — that  he  would  never 
leave  the  field  except  in  victory — that  he  was 
brother  and  father  and  lover  to  them — that  the 
world  would  be  better  for  this  day.  He  talked 
[304] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

like  a  man  at  a  bar,  or  standing  among  the  river- 
boats,  or  a  father  to  his  sons  in  the  fields. 

We  rode  along  the  lines  as  they  marched.  Our 
horses  lathered  and  dried  and  lathered  again  in 
the  morning  sun.  I  saw  my  comrade,  Varsieff, 
giving  up  his  soul  to  the  peasants: 

".  .  .  I,  too,  have  my  farm  that  waits  for  me 
— my  woman  who  waits  for  me — my  country,  my 
dream!  ...  I  build  with  you.  I  stand  or  fall 
with  you!  .  .  .  We  shall  be  better  for  this  day, 
my  children.  This  is  a  day  for  living  men  and 
comrades " 

He  filled  me  with  a  kind  of  white  flame. 

Then  the  crash.  After  that,  was  a  moment  of 
silence  and  gloom  like  a  cloud  passing  over  the 
sun.  Then  our  eyes  began  to  reap.  ...  A  bliz 
zard  of  hot,  stinking  metal  had  broken  in  front 
of  us — in  the  midst  of  our  marching  and  listening 
battalion.  If  you  have  ever  felt  the  mockery  and 
cruelty  of  raging  seas,  you  can  know  something 
of  the  shock  that  twisted  the  core  of  me  that  in 
stant.  That  which  had  been  the  white-haired 
peasants  with  open  laughing  mouths  and  lifted 
hands,  their  souls  answering  the  leader  who  loved 
them,  a  song  forming  on  their  lips  .  .  .  now  it 
was  as  if  a  carcass  had  been  moved — one  that  had 
lain  long  in  the  sun,  the  devastation  long  contin 
ued  underneath.  .  .  . 

These  were  my  boys.  Next  to  Varsieff  and 
Paula  Mantone,  I  loved  them.  Now  they  were 
[305] 


THE      HIVE 

down,  dismembered,  shaking — the  air  a  whir  of 
white  to  my  tortured  ears,  like  a  shriek  of  bewil 
dered  ghosts.  And  here  and  there,  like  Varsieff 
and  myself — men  standing  unhurt  in  the  midst 
of  human  fragments,  like  maggots,  shaking  them 
selves  to  cover. 

I  wonder  if  you  can  understand*?  It  seemed 
that  I  still  could  see  the  welter  of  our  boys  in  the 
leader's  face.  Also  I  saw  the  death  of  my  good 
friend — the  death-stroke  of  that  superb  mind — 
the  face  of  a  man,  whose  soul  had  vanished. 

Both  our  horses  were  down,  though  we  were  un 
hurt  so  far.  ...  A  distance  of  fifteen  feet  sepa 
rated  us.  I  called  to  him.  I  tried  to  tell  him 
that  he  had  not  failed.  I  thought  I  should  die 
before  I  moved,  before  I  could  get  started  toward 
him.  The  staring  failure  in  his  face  paralysed 
me.  For  the  time,  he  was  cut  off  even  from  the 
spirit  of  Paula  Mantone. 

I  had  to  look  down  and  watch  my  steps  as  I 
made  my  way  to  him.  I  knew  some  hideous  fear 
that  he  would  fall  in  that  blackness — if  I  looked 
away.  .  .  .  There  were  voices  from  the  ground. 
None  of  the  parts  of  men  could  be  still.  Lips 
writhed  before  my  eyes — and  words  were  spoken 
like  little  claps  of  force  in  thin  air.  ...  I  caught 
his  opened  collar.  .  .  . 

"It's  all  right,  Varsieff,"  I  whispered. 

"You  lie !"  said  he. 

It  was  like  a  blow  from  a  man's  mother.  I 
[306] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

had  to  look  into  his  face  before  my  brain  accepted 
his  words.  Then  I  remembered  my  lie.  .  .  . 
The  evil  of  it  had  not  come  to  me  until  now,  with 
him  breaking  down  before  my  eyes.  ...  I  saw 
the  look  again — that  I  had  seen  by  the  peasant's 
yard  long  ago  as  we  crossed  the  Torqueval  Peaks 
— the  look  of  a  frightened  child  in  that  face  of 
finished  manhood. 

I  pulled  him  to  me,  and  led  him  back  toward 
Sedgwick's  staff.  I  heard  myself  talking  and 
laughing,  jockeying  with  words.  .  .  .  His  head 
was  twisted  to  the  side — his  draggled  remnant  of 
a  mind  pulled  back  to  the  scene  of  that  havoc. 
And  now,  if  you  please,  we  were  catching  the  real 
thing.  The  old-line  Russians  were  breaking  upon 
us  with  machines  and  shrapnel — the  old  combing 
and  carding  that  seldom  fails.  ...  I  saw  the  cold 
mountains  all  about. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  slaughter  of  drones'?  Per 
fect  economy  it  is,  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
hive.  The  work  of  providing  for  the  future  is 
accomplished — no  mistake  in  the  plan.  The 
workers  gather  from  all  sides.  One  by  one  the 
big  clumsy  drones  are  put  to  death — wrestling, 
tugging,  stinging,  many  workers  giving  them 
selves  to  death  to  carry  out  the  spirit  of  the  hive. 
.  .  .  The  officers  ahead  who  ordered  our  brother 
Russians  upon  us,  thought  they  were  right — those 
great  grey  lines  ahead,  honeycombed  with  our 
own  precious  comrades,  all  of  whom  were  not  yet 
[307] 


THE      HIVE 

martyred,  as  was  proved.  But  they  had  not 
found  their  voice.  It  looked  like  straight  death 
they  brought  to  us. 

.  .  .  Ages.  I  would  turn  from  VarsiefPs  face 
to  the  cold  mountains.  Something  of  the  change- 
lessness  of  the  beyond  and  above  came  to  me  out 
of  the  hideous  fluctuation  of  the  near  and  below. 
I  could  not  keep  Varsieff  back.  He  wouldn't  re 
sist  so  long  as  I  held  him,  but  the  moment  my 
hands  released,  his  body  would  rise  like  some  au 
tomatic  thing  and  blindly  stagger  forward  into  the 
pale  smoke-charged  sunlight.  The  men  who  saw 
him — many  who  knew  what  he  had  been  and  had 
heard  him  speak  but  a  few  moments  ago — lost 
their  concentration  on  the  battle.  He  became 
everywhere  the  centre  of  a  rotting  line.  Clearly 
they  had  been  fighting  on  his  spirit — that,  and  the 
thought  of  going  home.  .  .  . 

Sedgwick  rode  up  and  saw  my  struggle — beck 
oned  me  back,  as  one  in  authority  would  bully  a 
guard  in  a  madhouse.  ...  I  obeyed,  thinking  of 
the  lie  I  had  told.  Here  were  human  fragments ; 
the  air  filled  with  the  shrieks  of  the  fallen — the 
face  of  my  friend  beside  me,  the  face  of  a  blasted 
mind — all  because  of  that  lie  of  mine. 

Then,  as  I  trundled  him  to  the  rear,  sometimes 
swinging  him  from  one  elbow  to  the  other,  I  saw 
a  line,  as  one  would  draw  a  bloody  finger  across 
his  cheek.  Then — it  was  like  a  monkey-bite  in 
the  bone  and  hair  of  his  eye-brow.  .  .  .  We  were 
[308] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

in  a  hail  from  the  machines  and  the  men  were  fall 
ing  back. 

I  think  we  are  half-mad  in  such  moments,  or 
else  touched  with  a  divine  sanity.  In  the  midst 
of  utter  loss,  the  lines  breaking  back,  the  men  be 
ginning  to  stampede — the  plan  flashed  into  my 
mind  that  I  could  only  save  the  first  lie  by  a 
second.  If  the  remnant  fell  back  to  starve  in  the 
Marshes — Varsieff  forever  was  put  from  me. 
Such  was  my  thought.  The  personal  issue  was 
greater  than  the  Cause.  I  was  beside  myself — 
never  so  little,  never  so  formidable. 

My  arm  slipped  from  Varsieff  who  sank  to  his 
knees  and  flopped  back  at  the  wheels  of  a  four- 
inch  Sanguinary,  bursting  hot.  I  ran  back  to 
Sedgwick's  staff,  leaped  into  an  empty  saddle — 
then  rode  along  the  cracking  fronts. 

"Halt "  I  yelled  to  the  faces  of  the  slip 
ping  lines.  .  .  .  "Halt — and  don't  you  see  you're 
running  from  your  own  Comrades'?  .  .  .  They're 
taking  over  the  Imperialists  yonder.  Our  men 
have  risen  in  the  ranks  of  the  enemy !  .  .  ." 

All  along  the  lines,  I  yelled  it — and  it  came 
forth  like  an  inspired  message — lie  that  it  was 
from  my  angle.  For  to  me,  death  was  better  than 
retreat,  with  the  eyes  of  the  world  on  our  little 
nucleus  of  the  new  order.  .  .  .  My  shouts  were 
checking  them. 

"Our  Comrades  are  coming  to  us — hold  for 
[309] 


THE      HIVE 

them!  .  .  .  Don't  run  away  .  .  .  they  are  com 
ing!  They  are  coming  to  join  us,  when  they 
clean  themselves  up  over  yonder — only  a  little 
clean-up  first,  my  children.  Hear  the  noise?" 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  rode.  I  only  knew 
that  the  fighting  death  was  victory — that  there  is 
no  propaganda  like  martyrdom.  .  .  . 

They  answered  at  first  with  a  kind  of  half 
hearted  halt.  I  was  struck  with  the  silence.  A 
queer  thing  happened.  I  saw  that  I  had  spoken 
the  truth.  .  .  .  There  was  firing  ahead,  but  it 
had  no  meaning  of  death  to  our  ranks.  They 
were  firing  in  the  air,  and  some  threw  down  their 
guns  and  were  running  toward  us.  Presently  we 
saw  the  tent-cloths  hoisted  in  truce.  It  was  like 
seeing  my  mother  again — shaking  the  table-cloth 
to  the  birds. 

Then  I  saw  their  lines  and  ours  running  to 
gether — yes,  VarsiefFs  new  heaven  and  new  earth 
— saw  them  running  together  bare-headed,  white- 
haired  peasant  boys,  hands  outstretched,  mouths 
open.  .  .  .  Freedom  was  an  aureola  of  different 
sunlight  around  their  heads.  On  they  came  like 
glorious  ruffians,  seizing  their  brothers  in  their 
arms — the  lines  folding  together  like  good  mates 
before  the  Lord. 

Then  it  was  like  a  blast — that  Varsieff  must 

see  this !     A  cold  blast  in  the  heart — that  he  must 

not  miss  this  glory — that  my  eyes  must  not  dwell 

upon    this    great    consummation    alone!      Deep 

[3*0] 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

within,  I  knew  my  pain  was  because  his  head  was 
not  lifted  to  the  picture  of  his  conquest.  Deep 
within,  I  knew  that  for  some  inexplicable  reason 
of  fate,  he  was  held  back  like  the  old  Master  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Jordan — not  allowed  to  en 
ter  and  witness  the  beauty  of  the  promised  land. 

In  the  midst  of  that  radiant  tumult,  I  ran  back 
to  the  place  that  I  had  left  him.  It  was  trampled; 
the  mud  was  deeper,  but  Varsieff  was  not  there. 
...  In  the  midst  of  the  shouting  and  the  glory, 
I  searched  for  him.  .  .  .  Hours  passed,  the 
fighting  ceased  ...  we  were  a  hundred  thousand 
strong,  armed,  provisioned,  hearts  turned  home 
ward.  .  .  .  Scores  of  us  were  looking  for  the 
Varsieff  now. 

And  then  I  heard  my  name  called,  and  two 
young  student-officers  caught  me,  one  to  each  el 
bow  and  carried  me  forward,  running  to  where 
the  woman  stood  .  .  .  Paula  Mantone.  She  was 
standing  in  the  midst  of  her  own  people — the  sun 
on  her  face.  And  I  saw,  too,  the  white  look  of 
one  who  has  conquered  fear,  but  the  weariness  of 
her  eyes  was  like  the  presence  of  death.  .  .  . 

"Where  is  he*?"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  God,  I  do  not  know " 

"Poor  dear  Lange — all  is  well  with  us.  ... 
The  boys  of  two  armies  rushing  together — yes, 
Lange,  this  is  a  good  day  for  us " 

She  spoke  rapidly,  like  lines  committed — the 


THE      HIVE 

same  death-like  weariness  in  her  tones.  .  .  .  She 
had  taken  my  hand: 

"Come,  we  must  find  him  .  .  .  take  me  to  the 
place  where  you  left  him — come  quickly " 

It  was  some  distance.  We  walked  at  first  in 
silence.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could  not  live  if  I  did 
not  find  out  what  she  would  have  done  this  morn 
ing  in  my  place.  Presently  she  said: 

"I  thought  he  would  fail  when  it  came  to  or 
dering  a  charge.  He  was  very  brave,  they  say." 

I  loved  the  students  who  told  her  that,  but  I 
had  known  too  much  torture  to  keep  the  perfect  sik 
lence. 

".  .  .  It  was  hard  for  him.  .  .  .  He  isn't  a 
killer — he  saw  only  the  white-haired  boys " 

"My  beloved "  she  whispered. 

"I  told  him  that  it  was  the  same  in  Petrograd 
as  here — that  the  dream  held  here — that  you 
would  have  told  him  to  be  strong  at  the  death 
part " 

She  was  not  listening.     She  did  not  answer. 

"It  was  just  here.  He  was  wounded  a  trifle. 
I  left  him  to  stop  the  troops.  They  were  break 
ing  a  bit,"  I  explained. 

I  had  passed  the  place  a  dozen  times.  I  re 
membered  by  the  big  Sanguinary — hot  when  I 
had  let  go  of  Varsieff's  arm.  The  dead  had  been 
covered.  The  big  gun  was  a  wreck  now — even 
the  caisson  with  a  broken  wheel. 


THE      COSMIC      PEASANT 

Then  I  realised  it  had  been  moved.  There  was 
a  queer  mound  under  the  wreckage.  I  reached 
down;  my  hand  felt  warmth  in  the  mud.  The 
woman  was  with  me.  ...  I  think  we  moved  that 
mammoth  caisson  together.  .  .  .  There  was  no 
white  on  him — a  coating  of  mud  but  warm.  We 
lifted  him  and  the  woman's  breast  covered  him 
from  my  eyes.  ...  I  heard  him  say  her  name. 
I  heard  him  speak  of  the  tropical  island  they 
would  go  to  together.  .  .  . 

I  stood  apart — I  who  had  stood  at  his  side  so 
long.  .  .  .  There  were  seconds  when  I  heard  her 
low  passionate  whispers — when  I  watched  the  arch 
of  her  shoulder,  the  beauty  of  her  bended  brow. 
...  I  did  not  see  his  face  again.  She  held  it 
fast  to  her  and  talked  somehow  out  of  the  world. 
Then  I  saw  her  raise  her  eyes  as  she  had  done  that 
night  in  the  tent.  For  the  first  time  I  realised 
that  he  had  only  kept  alive  for  her  coming.  .  .  . 
But  still  I  felt  he  must  know  the  whole  story.  I 
did  not  go  closer,  but  called  in  half  a  whisper: 

"Tell  him  how  the  boys  came  together — arms 
out  and  laughing  like  brothers.  Don't  let  him  go 
without  knowing  that — tell  him  how  they  threw 
their  guns  away  and  then  sat  down  on  the  ground 
together — singing  of  home  and  the  rivers  and  the 
ploughed  lands  and  the  women  waiting  for 
us " 

"I  told  him — I  told  him!"  she  answered. 
"You  may  come  to  him  .  .  .  but  he — he  only 


THE      HIVE 

waited  to  see  me.  .  .  .  Ah,  Lange,  you  had  him 
so  much " 

I  looked  away.  Dusk  was  falling,  the  white 
peaks  like  spirits.  ...  I  had  not  seen  his  face 
again,  but  it  suddenly  came  to  me  how  it  had 
looked  when  I  saw  it  before — that  which  was  the 
bravest  and  most  beautiful  face  that  I  knew  in 
manhood — how  it  had  been  beaten  and  bruised 
under  the  boots  of  running  peasants — crushed  into 
the  mire  by  the  feet  of  the  men  he  loved  so  well. 
For  a  moment,  I  was  in  the  red  world  of  rage  that 
this  should  be,  but  then  the  mighty  drama  of  it 
came  nearer,  the  supreme  laughing  art  of  it  all — 
that  only  the  saviours  call  to  them.  And  I 
smiled,  looking  away  to  the  dusk  falling  on  the 
cold  mountains — and  I  knew  that  my  friend's 
spirit  was  as  close  to  us  as  the  body  she  held 
against  her  breast.  .  .  . 

Then  back  in  the  bivouacs  a  song  began — the 
men  of  two  armies  roaring  out  a  song  of  the  great 
white  democracy  of  the  future.  .  .  . 


[3Hl 


RESUME 


r  ""VIE  end  of  Varsieff  is  satisfying  to  us, 
and  yet  I  wonder  if  I  can  make  this 
sort  of  romance  clear.  Martyrdom — 

"^^  they  call  it  a  short  cut.  There  is  a  say 
ing  that  the  soul  of  a  man  who  dies  for  something, 
goes  marching  on.  The  Irish  become  hopeless  of 
their  cause,  if  some  one  dies  for  the  opposition.  All 
revolutionists  have  reckoned  with  this  subtlety — 
no  propaganda  like  martyrdom;  all  the  sacred 
writings  refer  to  it,  our  Bible  several  times,  once  in 
the  sentence,  "Greater  love  hath  no  man " 

A  deluge  of  phenomena  from  "the  other  side" 
has  come  in  during  the  present  war,  all  the  old 
martyrs  of  nationalism  said  to  be  called  to  the 
cause  of  their  empires.  .  .  . 

What  is  the  romantic  haunt  that  lifts  a  man  to 
such  a  pitch  of  exaltation  that  he  transcends  pain, 
and  goes  singing  down  to  die*? 

These  are  matters  much  better  known  among  the 
young  dreamers  and  workers  of  Russia  and  the 
[315] 


THE      HIVE 

Orient  than  of  America.  .  .  .Varsieff  reveals  the 
child  under  the  man  of  action ;  the  lover  above  the 
intellectualist.  His  love  story  unfolds  certain 
passages  which  we  are  making  a  point  of 
in  these  chapters.  The  woman,  Paula  Man- 
tone,  represents  a  loved  type  in  our  sort  of 
story-making.  She  brings,  vaguely,  at  least, 
into  terms  the  romantic  ideal  so  calling  to 
us  in  these  days.  She  means  more  than  three-score 
and  ten.  Her  love  goes  on  and  on.  She  becomes 
a  priestess,  in  a  sense,  and  conducts  her  lover 
through  the  critical  passage  of  finding  his  own 
Soul.  External  battles  then  take  his  body,  but 
she  is  not  altogether  bereft.  An  intuitional 
woman  does  not  always  know  what  she  is  doing 
in  her  heart  story,  even  when  she  does  greatly.  If 
the  physical  action  had  broken  different,  if  the 
body  of  Varsieff  had  not  been  required  in  martyr 
dom,  for  instance,  he  might  have  emerged  from 
the  final  stress  of  action  in  a  state  of  spiritual  ex 
altation,  from  which,  I  can  imagine  Paula  Man- 
tone  calling  him  back  to  the  gardens  of  the 
senses.  .  .  .  Martyr,  priestess,  revoltee,  but  al 
ways  a  woman.  Every  year  of  devotion  to  the 
feminine  in  fiction,  compels  a  more  fluid,  yet 
more  mystic  handling. 

We  have  been  very  close  to  the  young  students 
and  poets  and  players  of  Russia.  In  the  Fall  of 
1914  we  published  the  following  paragraph: 

[316] 


RESUME 

*  There  are  men  in  Russia  who  have  heard  the 
mighty  music  of  humanity.     They  will  sing  their 
dream  and  grave  their  message  upon  the  peasant 
soul.  .  .  .  Not  the  Russia  of  Nicholas  Romanoff. 
His  passing  and  all  the  princes  of  his  tainted  blood 
will  prove  but  an  incident  of  the  Great  War. 
Very  low  in  the  west  among  the  red  blinking 
points  of  the  falling  constellation,  is  Nicholas  and 
that  Russia.     In  the  east  is  the  Russian  novi  be 
fore  the  dawn,  commanding  the  dark  before  the 
sun. 

The  young  men  of  India,  the  young  men  of 
China,  the  young  men  of  Russia,  the  young  men 
of  America — I  see  them  working  together  in  the 
wondrous  story  of  life,  as  it  reels  off  in  the  years 
to  come — mating  of  the  East  and  West,  the  planet 
seen  in  one  piece,  the  communal  spirit  of  the  Hive 
around  the  globe. 

...  I  find  myself  getting  up  a  rather  serious 
intensity  over  what  Romance  means,  a  signal  to 
tame  down.  .  .  .  Not  to  stay — to  drain  nothing, 
to  leave  all  cleaner,  more  orderly  and  richer  for 
one's  tarrying,  to  glance  but  lightly,  yet  with  a 
deep  smile  of  understanding  at  the  torrent  of  de 
tached  and  unmatched  things  which  apparently 
makes  the  world — to  love  it  all  better  than  those 
caught  in  detachment  can  possibly  love  one  an- 

*  Fatherland.     George    H.    Doran    Company,    New 
York. 

[317] 


THE      HIVE 

other — to  belong  to  the  many  by  remaining  apart 
from  separate  movements — at  last  to  be  the  Spec 
tator.  .  .  . 

One  may  deal  lightly  with  crowds,  but  never 
with  man  or  woman.  .  .  .One  may  say  he  has  all 
that  civilisation  has  for  any  human  creature;  he 
may  reasonably  be  bored  by  all  departments  of 
life,  but  there  is  enough  for  an  eternity  of  rever 
ent  study  and  adoration  in  the  nearest  human 
face.  The  lovelier  the  human  face,  the  more 
easily  we  can  discern  the  divine  in  it.  ...  You 
get  nowhere  without  loving  something.  This  is 
the  hardest  kind  of  material  gospel.  .  .  .  We  are 
all  incognito — the  greater  we  are,  the  less  per 
fectly  disguised. 

First  and  last  our  dream  of  Romance  means 
Motherhood — mysterious  enactments  that  the 
mere  male  can  never  know,  no  longer  the  mother 
hood  of  the  mammal,  but  the  coming  of  the  Guest, 
the  Shining  One — the  giving  of  body  and  mind 
and  soul,  no  fear,  no  stipulation,  no  impeding 
form  of  thought — more  than  that,  it  means  a  giv 
ing  of  the  child  to  the  world.  .  .  .  The  Valley 
Road  Girl  expresses  it  in  this  sharp,  short  pic 
ture  : 

Once  a  woman  lived  in  a  dense  forest,  and  had 

a  man-child  alone  there.     As  it  grew,  the  woman 

impressed  upon  it  the  greatness  of  God  and  the 

wonder  of  all  things.     Then  one  day,  she  led  him 

[318] 


RESUME 

by  the  forest-paths  to  the  Highway,  and  left  him 
there. 

It  means  the  Madonna  who  looks  up,  rather 
than  down,  at  the  head  upon  her  breast. 

The  creative  force  is  never  wasted.  Man  and 
woman,  in  love  or  lust,  are  never  alone — rather 
startling,  but  sooner  or  later  to  be  accepted.  The 
point  of  the  triangle  is  either  turned  downward 
or  upward.  The  creative  force  feeds  either  the 
abominations  of  the  underworld,  or  is  used  in  its 
designed  order  and  loveliness  as  a  point  of  incep 
tion  for  soul  into  form.  .  .  .  The  mother-nature 
of  the  New  Race  must  be  quickened  by  the  ideal 
of  the  coming  of  a  World-teacher,  of  develop 
ment  a  cycle  ahead  of  this  race.  Women  must 
partake  of  this  dream  in  their  maternities.  It  is 
the  light  of  such  an  advent,  shining  upon  the 
upturned  face  of  the  mother,  that  touches  the 
brow  of  the  child  with  light. 

Absolutely  the  concept  of  the  new  Democracy 
demands  the  coming  of  a  great  Unifier — a  focal 
point  for  all  world  movements  and  interests  and 
aspirations.  The  story  of  a  Master's  coming  is 
the  ultimate  Romance — the  finest  story  in  the 
world — for  that  in  itself  is  the  story  of  Regenera 
tion. 

The  work  of  this  particular  volume  seems  to  be 
ended.  Much  that  is  prepared  need  not  be  used. 
Right  here  is  the  breathing-space  that  always 
comes  in  a  life  or  a  book.  .  .  .  Not  to  stay.  .  .  . 


THE      HIVE 

Some  of  our  boys  are  off  to  the  trenches;  others 
may  go.  Part  of  the  original  group  has  been  un 
able  yet  to  follow  the  centre  to  the  West.  Our 
good  Gobind  *  who  belonged  to  the  pith  of  things, 
arose  from  one  breakfast  and  went  off  to  join  the 
cavalry.  There's  a  group  in  Chicago  that  we  see 
all  too  little  of — a  diffusion  time  truly,  but  only 
to  make  more  certain  the  time  of  integration  again. 

There  is  one  who  came,  changing  all.  We 
thought  we  knew  much  about  the  world.  We 
thought  mainly  that  things  were  settled  for  us. 
It  was  not  words  she  brought,  but  a  subtler  quick 
ening.  I  cannot  tell  it  exactly.  There  was  a 
day  in  which  I  was  bored,  not  satisfied,  and  an 
other  when  I  was  a  child  again — breathless,  quest 
ing,  listening  for  some  one  to  tell  me  stories  of 
another  and  better  country.  All  that  I  had  done 
and  been  and  lived  was  diminished;  more,  all  be 
hind  was  utterly  done,  leaving  scarcely  any  cri 
teria  for  that  which  was  to  be.  ...  No  inland 
lake  would  do  after  that ;  we  wanted  a  continental 
headland,  the  sweep  of  the  earth  and  sky — si 
dereal  time,  sidereal  space.  We  could  only  toler 
ate  the  quest  of  the  Impossible  after  she  came. 

.  .  .  She  came  and  wrote  her  book  through  the 
summer  days  and  then  she  went  away.  .  .  . 
Somehow  after  that  we  knew  what  rains  and  sun 
light  meant — what  all  nature  was  saying  and  do- 

*  Ben  Poteat. 

[320] 


RESUME 

ing.  At  least,  we  knew  better.  .  .  .  Not  to  stay. 
We  could  not  follow  continually,  but  at  last  out 
of  loneliness,  the  big  new  laughing  wonder  of  life 
came  to  us  ...  and  when  we  told  her,  she 
seemed  to  have  known  all  the  time.  .  .  . 

We  teach  by  making  pictures.  She  brought 
new  pigments  and  freshened  all  the  oils.  We 
loved  the  tints  and  half-tones  before  she  came, 
but  she  restored  us  to  the  virgin  beauty  of  the 
primal  rays.  We  liked  the  blends  before  she 
came — the  blend  of  rose  and  gold,  but  she  brought 
us  length  of  vision  and  redemption  of  taste  to 
know  the  meaning  of  the  Ultimate  Red,  the  red 
of  the  Pomegranate,  the  red  of  the  Inspired  Mary, 
to  whose  knees  at  the  last  all  artists  and  little 
children  find  their  way — the  passionate  red  of  the 
Quest  and  the  Cross  and  the  Son.  She  was  not 
surprised  when  we  told  her  what  her  gifts  mean 
to  us. 

An  artist  gives  himself  full-heartedly  to  the 
emotions.  Keen  and  poignant  afterward,  is  the 
battle  to  straighten  them  out,  to  comb  them  down. 
The  mind  holds  the  truth  about  it  all,  the  spirit 
sings  all  around,  but  the  heart  holds  fast  to  its 
agonising  play  of  passion  settings. 

Desire  is  like  an  old  King,  sitting  in  the  midst 

of  his  dogs,  a  King  by  the  fire  in  his  tower.    The 

Shining  Heir  is  born,  but  the  old  King  is  slow  to 

die.     He  sits  thinking  of  his  old  hunts,  his  rides 

[321] 


THE      HIVE 

to  kill,  old  wars  and  faces  at  the  window.  .  .  . 
He  rode  well;  he  thought  he  loved  very  well;  a 
great  name,  he  was,  in  the  hunts,  and  in  all  the 
games  of  getting.  He  meditates  now  upon  his 
one-time  conquests,  and  forgets  his  pain.  It  is 
his  memories  that  hold  him  fast  to  life  a  little 
while.  But  at  last  the  head  of  old  King  Desire 
sinks  to  his  breast,  the  fire  fades  from  his  last 
memory.  The  door  of  the  tower  room  opens,  the 
Shining  Prince  is  standing  there,  and  the  criers 
run  through  the  palace  crying  aloud,  "The  King 
is  dead.  Long  live  the  King!"  Desire  has 
ended;  the  Bestower  takes  the  throne. 

When  we  told  her  of  this  new  breath  of  life 
which  she  had  brought,  our  Mary  seemed  to  know 
all  about  that,  too.  She  smiled  and  looked  away 
when  we  showed  her  this  book  (and  the  inscrip 
tion  to  her),  so  many  pages  of  which  she  had 
read  before — our  dreams  for  the  New  Race  un 
folded  in  letters  to  her. 

The  instant  one  perceives  the  inner  meaning 
of  Equality,  glimpsing  the  great  Seamless  Robe 
of  humanity  as  one; — he  realises  that  what  is  best 
for  him  is  best  for  all  others — what  is  best  for  the 
many  is  his  own  highest  behest.  .  .  .  One  must 
grasp  this  to  know  what  Democracy  means,  to 
know  what  is  behind  the  word,  a  meaning  which 
those  who  use  it  most  haven't  dreamed  of.  You 
must  grasp  the  spirit  of  the  hive — that  winged 


RESUME 

myriads  of  golden  atoms  never  stray  so  far  as  to 
break  the  spirit-cord  that  binds  them  into  one — 
that  the  one  knows  all,  contains  potentially  all 
goodness  and  beauty  and  truth,  that  all  action,  art 
and  thought,  come  from  the  spirit  of  the  one — 
that  the  fruits  of  these  go  back.  I  love  to  tell  it 
again  and  again.  I  saw  it  all  afresh  to-day. 

The  sun  plays  tricks  with  the  earth  at  high 
noon.  One  feels  superbly  well — a  kind  of  seeth 
ing  in  the  veins.  It  pulls  him  away  from  the 
great  quest  for  the  Father's  House,  in  gusts  of 
Mother  Nature's  magic.  All  the  fragrance  of 
fallow  fields  is  in  the  hot  light  and  blowing  hay 
and  deathless  azure  and  high  noon.  Glorious 
swarms  of  bees  were  breaking  out  from  the  Spirit 
of  the  hive,  all  one  in  Spirit  at  the  top — the 
Spirit  brooding  at  all  times  over  all  the  workings 
of  the  hive.  ...  It  was  the  same  with  the  mil 
lions  of  men  who  walk  the  earth,  one  at  the  top 
— all  one,  coming  and  going  in  the  Spirit,  replen 
ished  and  replenishing  always,  learning  the  fu 
sions  here  in  friends  and  lovers,  each  finding  his 
one,  and  then  the  new  quest  together  for  the 
Great  Companions. 

Then  it  came  to  me  that  we  are  only  sick  and 
blind  and  lame  and  evil — in  the  sense  of  detach 
ment.  We  must  kill  that  out.  Hate  spoils 
everything.  Hate  binds  us  to  the  object.  We 
mustn't  despise  another's  coat.  It  may  have  been 
ours  yesterday — may  be  ours  to-morrow.  We 
[323] 


THE      HIVE 

must  kill  out  the  sense  of  separateness  from  any 
creature,  for  we  are  destined  to  become  one  spirit 
with  him  and  all  others.  Something  like  a  cloud 
— all  one,  as  a  cloud  is  one. 

Every  morning  on  the  grass — on  millions  of 
blades  of  grass — a  globe  of  dew  at  the  tip  of 
each.  .  .  .  The  Lord  Sun  arises.  The  dew 
warms  a  little  and  slips  down  the  track  of  the 
blade  into  the  root.  There  it  breaks  up  into  in 
finite  fragments.  The  sun  rising  higher  weaves 
his  warm  magic  over  the  fields;  invisibly,  like 
prayers  ascending,  the  drops  of  dew,  all  diffused 
into  a  thousand  fragments  each,  thin  as  steam,  and 
carrying  the  perfumes  of  roses  and  lilacs  and 
honeysuckles  and  meadow  lands  and  fallow  lands 
and  lake  and  ocean  shores, — like  prayers  ascend 
ing,  the  dewdrops  of  yesterday  return  as  one  to 
the  cloud.  Broken  into  the  farthest  diffusion, 
but  not  an  atom  lost.  All  the  richness  of  earth  in 
essence  returning  to  the  Spirit.  .  .  . 

The  same  with  bee  and  dew  drop  and  man — the 
same  with  swarm  and  cloud  and  tribe — each  frag 
ment  and  division  lifting  to  a  greater,  unto  the 
Shining  Source  at  last.  .  .  .  The  point  of  it  all 
is  that  man  is  spiritually  woven  to  his  brother  and 
to  the  race;  giving  himself  and  his  service  to  his 
brother  and  to  the  race  he  glorifies  the  texture  and 
stature  of  his  own  soul. 

Christmas,  1917. 

[324] 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

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